Serafina

“You shouldn’t have to rely on anyone to save you.”

Adrian’s standing in the villa’s converted gym, arms crossed.

“Thanks for the pep talk, but I handled myself fine until psycho Barbie showed up with cutlery.”

“You got lucky. Next time, you might not have someone there to tackle knife-wielding socialites.”

He’s got a point. A really, really annoying point.

“Fine. Teach me how to kick ass properly.”

That’s how I end up spending my mornings learning seventeen different ways to incapacitate someone with household objects. Turns out, Adrian’s not just pretty—he’s legitimately dangerous. The kind of dangerous that comes with military training and a past he’s surprisingly cagey about.

“Where’d you learn this stuff?” I ask, wiping sweat from my forehead after he demonstrates how to use a pencil as a weapon.

“Here and there.”

“Helpful. Very specific.”

“Some stories aren’t worth telling.”

“Or some stories are worth hiding.”

He pauses, towel in hand, and for a second I see something flicker across his face. Vulnerability, maybe. Or calculation. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.

“My father wasn’t a good man,” he says finally. “I learned to fight because the alternative was worse.”

“What kind of not good?”

“The kind that leaves scars.”

He rolls up his sleeve, and I see them—thin white lines crisscrossing his forearm like a roadmap of pain. Cigarette burns, maybe. Or worse.

“Jesus, Adrian.”

“It’s fine. Ancient history.”

But the way he says it, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as me, makes my chest tight. We all carry damage. Some of us just hide it better than others.

Three weeks into training, I’m throwing punches that could actually hurt someone, and my stomach is officially no longer hideable. Not huge, but definitely there. A tiny bump that makes me unconsciously rest my hand on it during meetings, like I’m protecting something precious.

Which I am, I guess. Even if the father is a Grade A douchebag who thinks he can force his way back into my life through sheer stubborn assholery.

“You’re getting distracted,” Adrian says, catching my wrist mid-punch.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re thinking about the baby.”

It’s not a question. He notices everything, which is either incredibly attractive or mildly terrifying. Jury’s still out.

“Hard not to. Everything I do now affects someone else.”

“Good thing you’re learning to protect both of you.”

The way he says it—like he actually gives a shit about my kid—makes something warm unfurl in my chest. It’s been a while since someone cared about me without wanting something in return.

“Adrian?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For everything.”

He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with sweat and something uniquely him. “Don’t thank me yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m about to make your life a lot more complicated.”

Before I can ask what that means, his lips are on mine, and my brain short-circuits like someone just poured water on the control panel.

This kiss is different from the balcony kiss. Less gentle, more desperate. Like he’s trying to say something he can’t put into words.

When we break apart, I’m breathless and dizzy and completely fucked in the best possible way.

“Complicated how?” I manage.

“You’ll see.”

***

The envelope arrives the next morning. No return address, just my name written in block letters like someone’s trying to disguise their handwriting.

Inside is a single photograph: Matteo talking to a man in a dark suit. The quality’s grainy, but the location is clear—the Meridian Hotel, the same place where the family council meets.

On the back, someone’s written: “The attack wasn’t random. Follow the money.”

Follow the money. Right. Because my life needed more cryptic bullshit and vague threats.

I spend the next week digging through financial records, using the access codes Father taught me to trace shell companies and offshore accounts. The Dorian family keeps meticulous records—apparently, organized crime requires excellent bookkeeping.

It takes me three days to find the connection. A payment made to a private security firm, routed through two shell companies, originating from an account registered to Castellano Holdings.

Don Castellano. Not just a name on the council. Not just another old man arguing about borders and bloodlines.

My mother’s family.

I sit back, stomach twisting.

I cross-reference the payment date with the attack—the one with the black SUV and the bullets that missed by inches.

Perfect match.

I thought… I thought he wouldn’t want to hurt me.

We barely know each other.

Unless… he does know me.

And that’s exactly why he wants me gone.