Serafina

“And who are you?”

The question comes out steadier than I feel. There’s something happening in my stomach that has absolutely nothing to do with the baby—a flutter of awareness that makes me hyperconscious of everything from the way the moonlight hits his face to how my dress suddenly feels too tight.

He extends his hand, and I swear the air gets thicker.

“Adrian Vasquez.”

His voice does things to my nervous system that should probably require a medical disclaimer.

“Nice meeting you, Adrian.” I manage a smile that hopefully doesn’t scream ‘I’m internally combusting.’

Before I can process what’s happening, he’s shrugging off his jacket and placing it around my shoulders. The fabric smells like expensive cologne and something distinctly male that makes my brain short-circuit.

“Here, you must be cold.”

“How—how do you know?”

His grin is slow and shameless. “Let’s just say the view was very… expressive.”

Oh my God.

My face goes nuclear. I yank the jacket tighter around myself, suddenly hyper-aware of just how little I’m wearing underneath. No bra, no panties, just a traitorous slip of silk and regret.

“I forgot,” I mumble into my hands.

“I didn’t.” His voice dips lower. “Hard to forget something that vivid.”

I peek at him through my fingers. “Are you seriously flirting with me after checking out my nipples?”

“I’m appreciating fine design. You walked out here like the Venus de Milo—if she could kill a man with her eyes and a pair of heels.”

I snort. I actually snort. “That’s the worst compliment I’ve ever received.”

“And yet, you’re still wearing my jacket.”

He sits beside me, leaving just enough space to feel deliberate. Close enough that the heat from his body sneaks through the thin fabric between us.

“So,” he says, voice low and wicked, “where have you been hiding all that fire?”

The question sobers me. My spine stiffens. “Are you spying? Fishing for intel?”

His laugh is soft, lazy, and full of trouble. “No, princess. But the mystery of your undead reappearance is mafia folklore now. Half the underworld thinks you’re a ghost. The other half’s hoping you’ll burn the world down.”

“Sounds about right.”

“What family do you belong to?” I ask, knowing in this life, that’s basically foreplay.

“I am not—”

“Adrian, get the car ready.”

The voice cuts through our conversation like a blade through silk. Both Adrian and I turn toward the villa, where a man in his sixties is standing in the doorway. He’s got that particular brand of old-world authority that makes you straighten your spine without thinking about it.

“Lord Ferdinand,” Adrian says, standing immediately. There’s respect in his voice, but also something else. Familiarity.

Lord Ferdinand. I’ve heard that name whispered in Verrelli family meetings. He runs one of the oldest families in Europe—old money, older connections, and the kind of power that doesn’t need to announce itself because everyone already knows.

“Of course, sir.”

And then, because my life is apparently a poorly written soap opera, Matteo appears behind Lord Ferdinand like a bad rash that refuses to clear up.

His eyes scan the garden until they land on me and Adrian, and his face goes through about seventeen different expressions in the span of two seconds. Confusion, recognition, possessiveness, and finally settling on that particular brand of masculine outrage that men get when they think someone’s touching their property.

“What the hell are you doing with that low-class chauffeur?”

The words hit the garden like a grenade.

Adrian goes completely still beside me. Not the kind of still that means calm—the kind that means dangerous.

“Excuse me?” I stand up, Adrian’s jacket still around my shoulders, and I can practically feel the testosterone levels spiking around me.

But it’s the look on Adrian’s face that makes my blood run cold. Not hurt. Not offended.

Amused.