Serafina

I step into Father’s office still buzzing from my mortifying book incident. Nothing like being caught red-handed reading upside down to really cement your reputation as a competent mafia heiress.

“He didn’t sign it, Dad.”

Father looks up from his paperwork, reading glasses perched on his nose like some kind of scholarly mob boss. “It’s alright. He’ll sign it eventually.” He sets down his pen. “Will you be able to attend a meeting for me?”

“What meeting?”

“The quarterly council. Every family will be there.”

My stomach does a little flip that has nothing to do with morning sickness. “Every family?”

“Every family that matters. The Torrinos, the Russos, the Castellanos, the Benedettos and more.” He leans back in his chair. “You’ll be representing the Dorians.”

“Representing how, exactly?”

“By being there. By showing them that the Dorian name isn’t just a memory.” His expression goes serious. “They need to see you, Serafina. They need to understand that we’re back.”

“And what am I supposed to do besides look pretty and try not to embarrass myself?”

“Listen. Watch. Learn.” He stands, walks to the window. “I’ll teach you everything eventually—the alliances, the territories, the unspoken rules. But for now, just be present. Be proud. Be a Dorian.”

“No pressure.”

“There’s always pressure. The question is whether you let it crush you or forge you into something stronger.”

Great. Philosophy from a dying mob boss. Just what I needed.

“When is this meeting?”

“Tonight. Seven o’clock. The Meridian Hotel, downtown.”

“Tonight?” My voice cracks like a teenager. “That’s not much notice.”

“Welcome to the family business. Nothing’s ever planned, everything’s urgent, and everyone’s trying to kill you.”

“Comforting.”

“You’ll be fine. Just remember—you’re not Serafina Moretti anymore. You’re not even Serafina Verrelli. You’re Serafina Dorian, and that name opens doors and closes coffins.”

Two hours later, I’m standing in front of my closet having a full-scale fashion crisis. What does one wear to a mafia council meeting? Business casual? Funeral formal? “Please don’t kill me” chic?

I settle on a black dress that says “I’m important” without screaming “I’m trying too hard.” Pearl necklace for respectability, stilettos for intimidation. The full Italian-American princess package.

But I can’t stop thinking about Adrian. About the way he caught me with that damn book, about his stupid perfect smile when he called it “advanced reading techniques.” About how he made me feel like a normal woman instead of a chess piece in everyone else’s game.

How the hell did I let myself get distracted by some guy when I’m supposed to be learning how to run a criminal empire?

Simple. Because he’s the first person in three years who made me laugh instead of cry.

The Meridian Hotel is the kind of place where normal people go to feel fancy and fancy people go to conduct business that would make normal people call the FBI. I’m somewhere in between, which seems appropriate for my current life situation.

The lobby is marble and crystal and the subtle scent of money and power. I check my reflection in a mirror—do I look like someone who could order a hit? Do I want to look like someone who could order a hit?

The elevator ride to the twentieth floor feels like ascending to my own execution. Or coronation. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.

I’m walking down the hallway toward the conference room, heels clicking against polished floors, when I hear it.

“If it isn’t my prettiest sister-in-law.”

I freeze. That voice. That particular blend of fake sweetness and genuine malice that I’ve been hearing in my nightmares for three years.

I turn around slowly, and there she is.

Bianca Verrelli, looking like she stepped off the pages of Vogue and into my personal hell. Perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect smile that promises pain.

“Bianca.” I keep my voice steady even though my heart is doing gymnastics. “What are you doing here?”

“Business, darling. Same as you.” She glides closer, moving like a predator in designer heels. “Though I have to say, you look… different. More confident. It’s almost like you think you belong here.”

“I do belong here.”

“Do you?” Her smile sharpens. “Because last I checked, you were nobody from nowhere. Dorian name or not, you’re still the same little girl who let us walk all over her for three years.”

“People change.”

“Some people do.” She examines her manicured nails. “Others just get better at pretending.”

Before I can respond, the conference room doors open and a man in an expensive suit gestures for us to enter.

“Ladies,” he says, “the council is ready for you.”