Serafina

I cannot believe my dad just hit Matteo across the face.

If he thinks that’s going to score him bonus points in my good graces, he’s absolutely right. Go, Dad!

Matteo’s standing there looking like someone just told him Santa isn’t real, hand pressed to his cheek, probably tasting his own blood. It’s the most satisfying thing I’ve seen in three years.

“What the hell is going on here?” Don Verrelli appears like he’s been summoned by the sound of violence. Which, knowing this family, he probably was.

“Don Dorian just hit me across the face, Father,” Matteo seethes, like he’s reporting a war crime instead of getting the slap he’s deserved for years.

Don Verrelli raises his eyebrows and shrugs. Actually shrugs. “Well, you did cause quite a scene out there.”

“You’re taking his side?” Matteo’s voice cracks like a teenager whose mom just grounded him. “What is wrong with you?”

“You deserved it. Didn’t you say you were going to divorce her?”

“I don’t want to divorce her. I never said that.” Matteo’s getting that desperate edge in his voice, the one that means he’s about to say something spectacularly stupid. “She would just be my second wife.”

And there it is. The stupidity I’ve been waiting for.

“I do not want to be your second wife,” I snap. “You didn’t give me a choice then, and you’re not giving me one now.”

“It doesn’t matter if you want it.” His voice goes hard, possessive in a way that makes my skin crawl. “I’ll kick Anastasia out.”

I laugh. Actually laugh, because this is so fucking ridiculous it’s almost performance art.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter, and storm out of there before I say something that gets someone killed.

The garden behind the villa is like something out of a fairy tale—if fairy tales included armed guards and the constant threat of assassination. Ancient olive trees, perfectly manicured hedges, fountains that probably cost more than most people’s houses. It’s beautiful in that overwhelming, Italian-wealth kind of way that makes you feel small and significant at the same time.

I find a stone bench tucked behind a wall of jasmine and finally let myself breathe.

My purse feels heavy in my hands. Not because of the designer weight of it, but because of what’s inside. I pull out the ultrasound picture, the edges already soft from my fingers tracing over it.

Twelve weeks. Nearly three months of carrying this secret, this life, this… complication.

The baby in the grainy image doesn’t look like much yet—just a tiny cluster of possibility. But it’s mine. Part of me. The only thing in this entire fucked-up situation that’s completely, absolutely mine.

Should I tell Matteo?

The thought makes my stomach twist. He’s the father, technically. He has a right to know, legally. But rights and reality are two different things when you’re talking about a man who was ready to demote you to second-wife status while his mistress moved into your bedroom.

What would he do if he knew? Use it to control me? Claim it as his heir and try to trap me in this nightmare permanently? Or would he even care, now that he’s got Anastasia and her promise of future children?

My hand instinctively moves to my still-flat stomach. You can’t even tell yet. Dr. Castello said I might not show for weeks, maybe months. I could keep this secret as long as I want.

But do I want to?

The baby deserves better than this. Better than a father who treats women like interchangeable assets. Better than growing up in a house where love is a business transaction and loyalty is bought with fear.

Maybe that’s my answer. Maybe this baby is exactly the reason I need to stay gone, stay Serafina Dorian instead of crawling back to being Serafina Verrelli.

A tear hits the ultrasound picture before I realize I’m crying. Not the pretty, single-tear kind of crying they show in movies. The ugly, soul-deep kind that comes from having your entire life rewritten in a single day.

I hear someone clear their throat behind me.

My blood turns to ice. I shove the ultrasound back in my purse and turn around, expecting to see Matteo or one of his family members come to drag me back for round two of their manipulative bullshit.

But it’s not.

The man standing there is tall, dark-haired, wearing a suit that screams money and danger in equal measure. He’s got the kind of face that belongs on movie screens and FBI wanted posters—beautiful in a way that makes you forget to be afraid until it’s too late.

When he speaks, his voice is accented, Spanish maybe, and smooth as expensive whiskey.