Chapter 2 — Chains of Tradition
Tara
The ivory lace of the gown scraped against her skin like nettles, each seam a precise reminder of the intricate cage being fastened around her. Tara stood before the full-length mirror in her room, her reflection fractured by the dim morning light filtering through the heavy brocade curtains. The room’s oppressive grandeur—the carved mahogany furniture, gilded mirror edges, and the faint scent of lavender and polish—settled around her in suffocating silence. It felt like a cell, ornate and inescapable.
Behind her, her mother hovered like a specter, her gloved hands smoothing an invisible wrinkle on Tara’s shoulder. Her stern expression, framed by her perfectly styled hair, bore the weight of tradition and control, her lips pressed into a thin line that carried decades of unspoken expectations.
“This fit will do,” her mother said, her voice clipped and clinical. She stepped back, her sharp gaze scanning Tara’s reflection with the precision of a jeweler inspecting a flawed gem. “The dress is perfect,” she added, though her tone carried the unspoken weight of command: *You have a role to play. Don’t fail.*
The gown was exquisite in every technical sense—a masterpiece of delicate lace and cascading silk that moved like water and clung like chains. It wasn’t a wedding dress. It was armor, designed not to protect but to imprison. Tara’s sharp green eyes stayed locked on the mirror, her reflection unyielding, though her throat tightened with the effort to keep her defiance under control.
“You’ve always had your sister’s figure,” her mother said softly, the words sliding into the air like a dagger cloaked in velvet.
The mention struck like a blow she hadn’t braced for, the room tipping on its axis as memories rushed unbidden to the surface. Her sister’s laughter—warm, unrestrained, and so unlike this stifling world—echoed in her mind. Tara forced her spine to remain straight, her jaw tight, though her hands clenched involuntarily at her sides. A phantom flicker in the mirror’s reflection caught her eye, and for a moment, she thought she saw her sister standing behind her, vibrant and alive. But it was only her mother, cold and unyielding, a stark contrast to the spirit Tara had lost.
“Her figure, maybe,” Tara said, her voice sharper than intended, “but not her silence.”
Her mother’s hands stilled mid-adjustment, only the faintest crack visible in her otherwise implacable facade. “This isn’t about you, Tara,” she said coolly, her words tempered steel. “It’s about the family. Remember that.”
The door creaked open behind them, slicing through the tension like a blade. Bella strode in, her combat boots a sharp contrast to the polished wood floors beneath them. Her dark curls were loosely pulled back, and the crooked smirk on her face was a defiant splash of life against the muted tension of the room.
“God, Tara, you look like you’re meeting a firing squad,” Bella said casually, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. Her voice carried its usual irreverence, but her dark eyes flickered briefly with something softer—concern. “Though I suppose this is pretty close.”
A faint tug at the corner of Tara’s lips threatened to form a smile, but her mother’s sharp inhale cut through the moment like ice.
“This is a private fitting,” her mother snapped, brittle as glass.
Bella shrugged, utterly unfazed. “Relax, Mrs. Saint. I just came to deliver something.” She reached into her leather jacket and pulled out a sleek black box. “Figured Tara might appreciate a little… insurance.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed at the box, suspicion sharpening her gaze. “What is that?”
“A gift for the bride,” Bella said, her tone dripping with mock innocence as she tilted her head. “Don’t worry—it’s tasteful.”
Tara stepped forward, brushing Bella’s hand in a silent exchange as she took the box. The cool weight of it sent a shiver through her fingers, and her breath hitched when she opened it. Nestled inside was the Vesper Dagger, its blackened steel glinting faintly in the dim light. The emerald in its hilt seemed to pulse with a life of its own, its intricate etching catching the fire buried deep within her.
Her mother stiffened, her disdain crackling in the air like static. “What on earth—”
“Thank you, Bella,” Tara said firmly, snapping the box shut before her mother could finish. Her tone was sharp enough to sever any further questions.
Bella smirked, her dark eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction. “You’re welcome. Just remember, it’s not just for decoration.”
Her mother’s glare slid from Bella to Tara, colder than the marble floors beneath them. With a pointed sniff, she turned and swept out of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the air taut with unspoken rebellion.
“I thought she’d never leave,” Bella muttered, pushing off the doorframe. She crossed the room and flopped onto the chaise lounge, her leather jacket creaking against the upholstery.
Tara set the dagger down on the vanity and turned back to the mirror, her hands smoothing the sides of the dress. “Do I look like a bride or a prisoner?”
“Both,” Bella said, smirking as she lounged. “But the kind of prisoner who could take out her captors with one hand tied behind her back.”
Tara allowed herself a thin, fleeting smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. Her fingers traced the edge of the dagger’s box, its cold surface grounding her. “Thanks for bringing it,” she said softly, her voice wavering just enough to betray the storm beneath her calm exterior.
Bella’s smirk faded, her expression softening. “You’re going to need it. I don’t like this, Tara. None of it.”
“I don’t either,” Tara admitted, her voice low as her hands curled into fists against the vanity. Her gaze flickered back to the mirror, the gown’s suffocating weight pressing harder against her chest.
Bella leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “So, what’s the plan? You’re not seriously going to just marry Roman and play the dutiful Mafia wife, are you? Because that’s not the Tara I know.”
Tara met her own eyes in the mirror, her green irises burning with forged steel. “I don’t know yet,” she admitted, hating the uncertainty in her voice. “But I’m not going to roll over and play their game.”
“Good.” Bella’s voice sharpened with conviction. “Because if anyone can turn this whole mess on its head, it’s you. Just… be careful, okay? You’ve got Luciano to think about. And me.”
The mention of her brother tightened something in Tara’s chest, guilt lashing at her resolve. Her gaze softened as she thought of Bella, too, standing unwaveringly at her side despite the risks. “I know,” she said quietly. “I won’t let anything happen to either of you.”
Bella stood, her combat boots thudding softly against the floor as she crossed the room. She placed a firm hand on Tara’s shoulder, her grip steady and reassuring. “You’re not alone in this, you know,” she said, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”
Tara nodded, swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat. As Bella left, the room seemed colder, but the weight of the dagger in her hand reminded her she wasn’t powerless. Turning back to the mirror, she met her own gaze, the fire in her eyes untamed.
The dress was a cage, but the dagger was a key. And she intended to use it.
