Serafina

“Your mother,” my father says, settling into his study chair like it’s a throne made of memories, “had this way of making people listen without raising her voice.”

“Yeah? How?”

“She made them believe they mattered. That their opinion could change her mind.” His smile is tired but genuine. “Then she’d do exactly what she planned from the beginning, but they’d think it was their idea.”

“Manipulation 101.”

“Leadership 101. There’s a difference.”

I’m curled up on the couch across from him, trying to memorize everything—the way he gestures when he talks about strategy, how his eyes light up when he mentions her, the particular tone he uses when he’s about to drop some mob wisdom that’ll probably save my life someday.

“Being a Dorian isn’t just about the name,” he continues. “It’s about understanding that power without purpose is just violence. And violence without intelligence is just chaos.”

“What’s our purpose then?”

“Protection. Family. Legacy.” He coughs, and I see blood on the tissue. “Making sure the people who matter don’t disappear.”

Three days later, I’m sitting at the head of a conference table facing twelve men who look like they could buy and sell small countries. Father’s beside me, but barely. He’s fading, and we all know it.

“Gentlemen,” he says, voice still carrying authority despite everything, “I present to you my successor. Donna Serafina Dorian.”

The silence that follows could power a small city.

“With all due respect, Don Dorian,” says Vincent Torrino, who looks like he’s been pickled in testosterone and bad decisions, “she’s young. Inexperienced.”

“She’s also not stupid,” I say before Father can respond. “Which apparently puts me ahead of the curve.”

A few suppressed chuckles around the table.

“The dock situation,” I continue, because fuck it, we’re doing this. “You want the Bratva out, but you’re approaching it like it’s 1985. They’re not going to be intimidated by traditional strongarm tactics.”

“What do you suggest?” asks Carlo Benedetto, genuinely curious.

“Cut off their money. They need the docks for shipping, but they also need legitimacy for their front businesses. Start targeting their clean operations. Make it expensive to stay, profitable to leave.”

“That could take months.”

“Better than a war that takes years and costs us half our people.”

Vincent leans back. “Interesting.”

“It’s also cheaper. Wars are expensive. Bureaucratic pressure is just good business.”

By the time the meeting ends, I’ve restructured three territory disputes and prevented what would’ve been a spectacularly bloody turf war. Not bad for someone who was mixing risotto a week ago.

“You killed it in there,” Adrian says later, finding me in Father’s study with a stack of speeches to review.

“I nearly threw up twice.”

“Didn’t show.” He settles into the chair across from the desk. “Tomorrow’s the big one though. Every family will be watching.”

Tomorrow. The quarterly summit where I officially claim the Dorian seat. No pressure.

“I need to practice the speech again.”

“No, you need to learn how to own the room before you walk into it.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Stand up.”

I stand.

“Now walk to the window like you own everything you see.”

I walk to the window like I’m heading to my execution.

“Stop. Try again. This time, remember that everyone in that room tomorrow needs something from you. You’re not asking for permission to lead. You’re deciding whether they deserve to follow.”

I try again. This time, something shifts. My spine straightens, my steps slow down, my chin lifts.

“Better. Now turn around and tell me why I should trust you with my life.”

The words come easier than expected. “Because I’m not going to waste it on stupid wars or pointless pride. Because I understand that your life is worth more than my ego. And because if I fuck this up, we all lose.”

“There she is.”

“Who?”

“The woman who’s going to terrify every Don on the East Coast.”

That night, I’m on the balcony overlooking the estate, trying to process the fact that in twelve hours I’ll officially be responsible for the lives and livelihoods of about three hundred people.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

Adrian appears beside me, and suddenly the night feels less overwhelming.

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“Yeah, well, I’m full of them.”

We stand there in comfortable silence, the kind that happens when you’re both pretending you’re not thinking about the same thing.

“You know,” he says finally, “most people spend their whole lives trying to figure out who they’re supposed to be. You figured it out in a week.”

“I had good teachers.”

“You had good instincts. There’s a difference.”

I turn to look at him, and something in his expression makes my breath catch. He’s not looking at me like I’m some mafia princess or some project to manage. He’s looking at me like I’m… me.

“Adrian—”

“You’re incredible, you know that?”

The words hit differently than I expected. Not like flattery or manipulation, but like truth.

“I’m terrified.”

“Good. Means you understand what you’re taking on.”

“What if I screw it up?”

“Then you’ll figure it out. Like you always do.”

The space between us shrinks without either of us moving. Or maybe we both moved. Hard to tell when your brain short-circuits.

“This is probably a bad idea,” I whisper.

“Probably.”

And then he’s kissing me, slow and deliberate and nothing like the desperate, possessive kisses I’ve known. This is different. This is choice instead of obligation, want instead of duty.

When we break apart, I’m breathless and dizzy and more awake than I’ve been in years.

“Still think it’s a bad idea?” he asks, forehead resting against mine.

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I like bad ideas.”

“Lucky for me.”