Serafina

I step into the conference room and immediately understand why people call these things councils instead of meetings. This isn’t corporate America—this is a room full of apex predators in Armani suits deciding who lives, who dies, and who gets to keep their kneecaps.

The table is massive, polished mahogany that probably cost more than most people’s houses. Around it sit the heads of every major family on the East Coast, and let me tell you, the testosterone levels in here could power a small city.

I take a seat three chairs down from the head of the table. Bianca slides in beside me like a snake in Saint Laurent, all fake smiles and genuine malice.

“Gentlemen,” Don Torrino calls the meeting to order. He’s ancient, maybe eighty, with the kind of authority that comes from decades of making people disappear. “Before we begin, I believe we have some introductions to make.”

Every head turns toward me. I feel like a specimen under a microscope.

“Serafina Dorian,” I say, standing because sitting feels like submission. “Representing the Dorian family.”

“We thought the Dorian line was extinct,” Don Russo mutters, eyeing me like I’m a ghost at his dinner party.

“Reports of our death were greatly exaggerated.”

A few chuckles around the table. Good. Humor beats fear every time.

That’s when I spot him. Matteo, sitting two seats down from his father, staring at me like I’m some kind of puzzle he can’t solve. He looks like shit, honestly. Dark circles under his eyes, that particular brand of exhaustion that comes from realizing you’ve fucked up spectacularly.

“Now then,” Don Torrino continues, “we have territory disputes to discuss. The docks, specifically.”

For the next thirty minutes, I listen to grown men argue about shipping routes and protection rackets like they’re discussing fantasy football. It’s simultaneously boring and terrifying—the casual way they talk about violence, the way they divide up a city like it’s pizza.

I’m taking mental notes on everything when Bianca decides to open her perfectly glossed mouth.

“With all due respect,” she says, and we all know that phrase is about to be followed by complete disrespect, “shouldn’t we address the elephant in the room?”

“Which elephant would that be?” Don Castellano asks.

“The fact that we’re supposed to take seriously someone who let people walk all over her for three years.” Bianca’s smile could cut diamonds. “I mean, how can she represent the Dorian family when she couldn’t even stand up for herself in her own marriage?”

The room goes dead quiet. Every eye is on me, waiting to see if I’ll crumble like I used to.

“Interesting point,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Though I’d argue that surviving three years of psychological warfare while maintaining my sanity shows remarkable strength.”

“Surviving?” Bianca laughs. “You mean cowering.”

“I mean playing the long game while you played dress-up in other people’s lives.”

Her face goes white, then red. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. While I was learning how this world really works, you were busy being daddy’s little princess, never having to fight for anything in your life.”

“At least I never let anyone treat me like garbage.”

“No, you just became the garbage instead.”

The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Half the men are trying not to smile, the other half look like they’re watching a car accident in slow motion.

“You think having a new name makes you powerful?” Bianca’s voice rises. “You’re still the same pathetic little girl who—”

“Bianca. Stop.”

The voice cuts through the room like a gunshot. Everyone turns to stare at Matteo, who’s looking at his sister like she just set the house on fire.

“What did you say?” Bianca’s voice is barely a whisper.

“I said stop.” Matteo’s jaw is set, his hands clenched on the table. “She’s right. You’ve never had to fight for anything. You’ve never had to survive what she survived.”

The silence is deafening. Bianca looks like she’s been slapped.

“Are you seriously taking her side?” she hisses.

“I’m taking the side of truth.”

I stare at him, completely shocked. Three years of marriage, and he chooses now to defend me? In front of everyone?

“You know what?” I stand up, chair scraping against the floor. “This is fascinating. Really. But I didn’t come here to relitigate my marriage or defend my worth to people who wouldn’t recognize strength if it bit them in the ass.”

“Serafina—” Don Torrino starts.

“No.” I grab my purse, dignity intact. “I came here to represent my family, not to be anyone’s entertainment.”

I head for the door, every eye in the room following me.

“The Dorian family will be in touch about future meetings. Ones where we’re treated like equals, not curiosities.”