Serafina

“Your driver is Marco,” Antonio says, gesturing to a guy who looks like he could bench press a small car. “And this is Lucia, your stylist.”

Lucia looks like she stepped off the pages of Vogue Italia—all sharp angles and expensive taste. She’s eyeing me like I’m a particularly challenging art project.

“We have work to do,” she says, already pulling out her phone. “The boutique is waiting.”

An hour later, I’m sitting in the most exclusive shop in the city, and they’ve literally closed it down for me. Just me, Lucia, and about six sales associates who look terrified to breathe wrong.

“Try this,” Lucia shoves a midnight blue gown at me. “Armani. Custom cut.”

“It’s gorgeous, but—”

“No buts. You’re not shopping as Serafina from the trenches anymore. You’re shopping as Donna Serafina Dorian. Act like it.”

The dress fits like it was made for me. Because apparently, it was.

“How did you get my measurements?”

“Your father’s had people watching you for years,” Lucia says, adjusting the hem. “We know everything about you, including the fact that you’re going to need this let out soon.”

I freeze. “What?”

“Nothing gets past me, cara. The way you’ve been holding your stomach, refusing wine last night. How far along are you?”

Shit. “I need to make a stop before we go home.”

Twenty minutes later, Marco’s parking outside a medical imaging center.

“I need an ultrasound,” I tell the receptionist.

“Do you have an appointment?”

I slide Antonio’s black credit card across the counter. “I need an ultrasound. Today.”

Money talks. Fifteen minutes later, I’m in a dark room with Dr. Castello, who looks like she’s seen enough rich girls’ secrets to write a bestseller.

“How far along do you think you are?” she asks, squirting cold gel on my still-flat stomach.

“I have no idea. My life’s been… complicated.”

She moves the ultrasound wand around, and suddenly there’s a shape on the screen. A tiny, perfect shape with what looks like arms and legs.

“About twelve weeks,” she says. “Nearly three months.”

Three months. I’ve been carrying Matteo’s baby for three months while he was planning to replace me.

“Why don’t I look pregnant?”

“You’re built small. Some women don’t show until their second trimester, sometimes later.” She prints out the ultrasound picture. “Everything looks healthy.”

I stare at the grainy image. My baby. My secret weapon.

The drive home is quiet. Marco doesn’t ask questions, and I don’t volunteer information. But I keep touching the ultrasound picture in my purse like it’s a talisman.

The villa is buzzing when we arrive. Caterers, florists, security—everyone preparing for tonight’s party. My coming-out party as a mafia princess.

“The dress is already in your room,” Lucia says. “We start getting ready at six.”

My bedroom is the size of most people’s apartments. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a bed that could sleep eight people, and a walk-in closet bigger than my old apartment.

The dress hanging on the door is perfection—deep emerald silk that makes my skin glow and my eyes look like dark fire. When I put it on, I don’t recognize myself in the mirror.

“You look like your mother,” Lucia says, appearing behind me with a jewelry box. “She had the same fire in her eyes right before she walked into a room and changed everything.”

The emeralds around my neck are probably worth more than most people’s houses. But they feel right.

“Time to make an entrance,” Marco says from the doorway.

The party is already in full swing when we reach the main floor. The villa has been transformed into something out of a movie—crystal chandeliers, string quartet, and about two hundred people who look like they could buy and sell small countries.

But when I walk in next to Antonio, everything stops.

Literally stops.

Conversations die mid-sentence. Glasses pause halfway to lips. Everyone stares like they’re seeing a ghost.

Which I guess they are.

“Is that—?”

“She’s supposed to be dead.”

“Who is she?”

“An imposter?”

Antonio leads me to the small stage at the front of the room, taking the microphone with steady hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice carries across the silent room, “I’d like you to meet my daughter. Serafina Dorian.”

The whispers explode. But before I can step forward to say something—anything—a familiar hand slides around my waist.

“Actually,” Matteo’s voice cuts through the noise as he takes the microphone from my father, “I believe there’s a small correction needed.”

No. No, no, no.

What the hell was he doing here?!

His arm tightens around me possessively, and when he speaks, his voice carries to every corner of the room.

“She is also my beautiful wife. So this is Serafina Dorian Verrelli.”