His Queen,Their War

Chapter Two

I don’t even remember how the night went from fun to a crime scene in under five minutes. One second, I was laughing too loud with strangers over cheap tequila shots then I was being fingered by Jake, the next I was being yanked out of the party like a shoplifter getting caught on camera.

And the hand around my wrist? Yeah, that belonged to my dad.

“Papà…” I started, but he didn’t even look at me. His jaw was clenched like a brick wall and he kept walking, dragging me along in my too-high heels like a kid’s balloon on a windy day.

What a disgrace,I didn't even know how I was gonna explain myself tomorrow during class. He caught me mid scene of the fingering!

By the time I realized we were already home, he had practically shoved me through the door.

And there she was. My mother,Mrs De Santis. Waiting in the living room like the final boss in an Italian video game. Arms crossed, hair perfect, eyes blazing.

Before I could even take a breath, my dad propelled me forward and tossed me,yes, tossed,onto the couch. I landed like a ragdoll, my skirt riding up, my hair falling into my face.

“Ma, I can explain—”

What followed was less of a conversation and more of an Italian exorcism.

“Santa Madonna, che vergogna! Che diavolo ti è passato per la testa, Alessia?” my mom yelled, words hitting me like rapid-fire bullets. “Sembri una sciagura in mini-gonna!”

“Wow, thanks,” I muttered, pushing my hair back. “Love the positive feedback,remember I’m not done with Italian class yet.”

She ignored me, sniffing dramatically. “Dio santo… alcol economico. My daughter smells like a nightclub bathroom.”

Okay, rude.

“I wasn’t…”

“Enough,” my dad cut in, and just like that, my mouth snapped shut. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t move a muscle,just stared at me in that quiet, disappointed way that made me want to shrink into the couch cushions.

Then my mom stepped forward, and I could feel the shift in the room. This was it. The moment I’d been dodging for months.

“You remember Marco?” she asked, her tone deceptively soft.

I groaned. “You mean future husband Marco, the man whose handshake feels like signing a loan agreement?”

Her lips tightened. “Sì. That Marco. The man you are going to marry. And let me tell you something,he will not like reckless women. No man does.”

“Correction,” I said, holding up a finger. “Some men do. Some love it. There’s a whole…”

“Do. Not. Test. Me.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass.

I slumped back. “I’m just saying maybe Marco and I aren’t compatible. Maybe I don’t want to be…”

“You will be,” she snapped. “And after tonight, I have no choice. You cannot be trusted here. Not in this city. Not with these… people you call friends.”

That got my attention. “What does that mean?”

She straightened her dress like she was preparing to deliver bad news in a soap opera.

“It means you will go to Italy. You will stay with your step brother. You will finish your studies there, under his roof, where you will be watched, guided… and protected.”

“Protected from what? Joy?” I asked.

I'm not a baby! I'm a twenty year old being pampered and over protected like a two year old.

She ignored me. “In Italy, you will learn how to behave as a wife. You will not embarrass us again.You will finally learn Italian which you've been skipping. And when Marco visits…”

“Visits?!” My voice cracked.

“you will present yourself as a respectable young woman,” she continued without missing a beat.

“This is medieval!” I protested. “You can’t just ship me off to be babysat by Matteo like I’m some runaway nun.”

Her eyes glittered dangerously. “You gave up the right to choose when you walked into that party smelling of sin and stupidity.”

I blinked. “Okay, first of all, Sin and Stupidity is my new perfume line, thank you very much…”

“I’m pretty sure you were f****d,” said mom.

“Dad ruined the moment.”

My dad raised a hand, and that was the end of my comedy routine. “You will go,” he said simply. “You will finish your degree in Italy. This discussion is over.”

The thing is, I wanted to scream. To tell them that I was twenty-one, that I could make my own choices, that arranged marriages belonged in history books, not my life. But with the way they were both looking at me, the words felt… pointless.

So I crossed my arms, leaned back, and muttered, “Fine. Send me to Italy. But if I come back married to a pizza chef instead of Marco, that’s on you.”

My mom made the sign of the cross and muttered something about Satan having too much free time.

*********

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My head was still pounding from the party…well, from the scene I caused,and now I had a new headache, Italy.

Italy meant small towns where everyone knew your name. Italy meant my step brother with his perfect garden, his impossible rules, and his habit of reminding you how much better things were “when I was your age.”

And, of course, Italy meant Marco.

Tall, perfect hair, suit-and-tie personality. I’d met him once at a family dinner, where he’d shaken my hand like I was a job applicant and said, “I’m sure we’ll get along.” I could still hear it, the way he made it sound like a polite threat when I was sixteen.

Marco was going to be a problem.

But so was I.

If my parents thought shipping me halfway across the world was going to turn me into some docile, apron-wearing future wife, they clearly hadn’t been paying attention for the last twenty-one years.

*********

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of my mom speaking rapid Italian into the phone. I caught words like “guest room,” “big favor,” and “yes, immediately.”

It was happening.

I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow. Fine. I’d go. I’d even smile. But that didn’t mean I was going to behave.

Italy had no idea what was about to hit it.