Serafina

Driving to a mob meeting alone is apparently the kind of decision that gets filed under “seemed like a good idea at the time” right next to my entire fucking marriage.

I’m supposed to meet with the Torrino family about their little territory dispute—something about gambling revenue splits that’s apparently too complicated for the men to figure out without a woman’s touch. Father wanted to send Marco with me, but I shut that down fast.

“I need to do this alone,” I told him. “They need to see me as a leader, not as someone who needs protection.”

Famous last words, right there.

The ambush happens on Route 9, about two miles from the meeting spot. Three black SUVs come out of nowhere like they materialized from my worst nightmares. Professional job—coordinated, precise, the kind of operation that costs serious money.

My driver doesn’t even get a chance to react before the first bullets shatter the windshield.

“Get down!” Marco Jr. shouts, but he’s already slumping forward, blood spreading across his shirt like spilled wine.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The car careens off the road, and I’m thrown against the door hard enough to see stars. My ribs scream in protest, but adrenaline kicks in like rocket fuel.

Three weeks of combat training with Father’s security team, and it’s about to get its first real-world test.

The car flips once, twice, and comes to rest on its side in a ditch. I’m hanging from my seatbelt like a very expensive piñata, tasting blood and wondering if this is how mafia princesses die—upside down in designer dresses.

“Target’s alive,” someone says. Heavy boots on gravel. “Boss wants confirmation.”

Boss. Which boss? The list of people who want me dead is getting uncomfortably long.

I unbuckle myself and drop to what used to be the passenger window, now a spider web of shattered glass. Marco Jr.’s not moving. Probably dead. Definitely not going to help me out of this clusterfuck.

The door above me gets ripped open like a can opener, and a guy in tactical gear peers down at me. Mask covering everything but his eyes, which are the kind of cold that makes you understand why people invented hell.

“Hello, princess.”

I grab the broken glass with both hands and drive it into his neck before he can react. Blood sprays like a fucking fountain, and he drops like a stone.

One down. How many to go?

“She killed Martinez!” someone shouts.

A lot, apparently.

I crawl out of the car, glass cutting through my dress, my palms, my knees. Everything hurts, but pain is just information, and right now the information is telling me to move or die.

Two more guys round the car, guns drawn. I roll behind the engine block just as bullets start flying, metal pinging like deadly wind chimes.

The .22 Father insisted I carry is in my purse, which is somewhere in the wreckage. Great. I’m about to die with a loaded gun three feet away because I couldn’t reach my fucking accessories.

“Come out, princess. Make this easy.”

“Eat shit,” I call back, because if I’m going out, I’m going out with style.

I spot a tire iron in the wreckage. Not exactly an arsenal, but it’ll have to do.

Guy number two comes around the car low and fast. I swing the tire iron like I’m aiming for the fucking bleachers. It connects with his knee, and he goes down screaming.

Guy number three learns from his friend’s mistake and stays back, using the SUV as cover.

“This doesn’t have to be difficult,” he says. “Boss just wants to talk.”

“Yeah? Tell your boss to make an appointment.”

“Can’t do that. See, you missed your last appointment. Made some people very unhappy.”

That’s when I realize whose voice I’m hearing. The accent’s slight, but it’s there. Russian.

The Bratva. Of course it’s the fucking Bratva.

I’m calculating my next move—which is basically “pray for a miracle”—when the world explodes in gunfire.

But this time, it’s not aimed at me.

When the shooting stops, guy number three is face-down in the gravel, and Matteo Verrelli is standing over him with a smoking gun.

“You’re late,” I say, because apparently my brain handles near-death experiences with inappropriate humor.

“Traffic was murder.” He holsters his weapon and moves toward me. “Are you hurt?”

“Define hurt.”

“Can you walk?”

“Can I choose not to?”

“No.”

He helps me up, and that’s when I feel it—warm wetness running down my leg. Not blood. Something else.

Oh, shit.

“Hospital,” I say.

“What?”

“Hospital. Now.”

“Serafina—”

“I’m bleeding, and it’s not from the cuts.”

The color drains from his face. He understands immediately what kind of bleeding I’m talking about.

Dr. Castello’s office feels like a confessional booth where you’re about to admit to crimes that’ll get you excommunicated from the human race.

“The bleeding’s stopped,” she says, checking the monitor. “Baby’s fine. Heartbeat’s strong.”

“Thank God,” I breathe.

“Baby?”

Father’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. He’s standing in the doorway, looking like someone just told him the world is flat.

Fuck. I forgot he was coming.

“I can explain—”

“You’re pregnant?” His voice doesn’t change volume, but something dangerous flickers behind his eyes.

“It’s complicated.”

“Who’s the father?”

The question hangs in the air like a loaded gun. I could lie. Should lie. Tell him it’s Adrian’s, or some random guy’s, or anyone’s but—

“It’s mine.”

Matteo steps into the room like he owns it, still wearing his blood-splattered shirt from playing hero on Route 9.