Serafina

Setting up a meeting with someone who tried to have you assassinated is probably the kind of decision that gets filed under “Darwin Award nominees,” but here we fucking are.

The contact info came through encrypted channels—professional, clean, the kind of communication that screams “legitimate business inquiry” instead of “trap designed by homicidal relatives.” Should’ve been my first red flag.

The meeting spot is neutral territory. A café in Brooklyn that does artisanal coffee and probably money laundering on the side. I show up early, scope the exits, check for suspicious activity. All the paranoid bullshit Father drilled into me during those late-night strategy sessions.

“Ms. Dorian?”

The guy approaching my table looks like central casting ordered “Generic Businessman #3.” Expensive suit, forgettable face, briefcase that probably costs more than most people’s rent.

“That’s me.”

“Thank you for agreeing to meet. My employer has some information you might find valuable.”

“Your employer being?”

“Someone who knew your mother very well.”

The coffee I just sipped turns to acid in my stomach. “Knew her how?”

“Family connections. Very old ones.”

He slides an envelope across the table. Inside are photographs—my mother as a teenager, laughing with people I don’t recognize. But the family resemblance is undeniable. Same dark eyes, same stubborn jawline.

“These are—”

“Your relatives. The ones who’ve been searching for you.”

That’s when the room starts spinning. Not emotional spinning—actual, physical, everything-is-tilting-sideways spinning that means someone just introduced foreign chemicals to my bloodstream.

“What did you—”

But I’m already falling, consciousness sliding away like water down a drain, and the last thing I see is Generic Businessman’s face morphing into something that’s definitely not forgettable.

Waking up feels like clawing my way out of a grave made of cotton and regret.

The room I’m in screams old money and older secrets. Marble floors, oil paintings of dead people in expensive clothes, and enough gold leaf to fund a small country’s GDP. It’s beautiful in the same way poisonous snakes are beautiful—objectively stunning, definitely deadly.

My hands are zip-tied to a chair that probably costs more than my car used to. Classy.

“You’re awake. Good.”

The voice comes from behind me, and when I turn my head, I see him. Don Castellano, looking like he stepped out of a Godfather movie and into my personal nightmare.

“Let me guess—this isn’t a social call.”

“On the contrary. This is the most social call you’ll ever receive.” He moves around to face me, settling into another obscenely expensive chair. “Do you know who I am?”

“A dead man walking if my father finds out about this.”

His laugh could freeze hell. “Your father. Antonio Dorian. The man who stole my sister and turned her into something she was never meant to be.”

“Your sister?”

“Maria. Your mother.” He leans forward, and I can see the family resemblance now. Same bone structure, same predatory smile. “My blood. My family. My responsibility.”

The pieces click together like bullets sliding into a chamber. “You’re my uncle.”

“I am. And you, my dear niece, are finally coming home.”

“This isn’t home. This is a goddamn kidnapping.”

“This is family business.”

“Family business?” The laugh that comes out of me could power a small generator. “You murdered my mother. You tried to have me killed. That’s not family—that’s terrorism with a genetic connection.”

His face goes cold. “Your mother betrayed our blood. Chose an outsider over her own family. She forgot where she came from.”

“She escaped from where she came from.”

“She was trafficked, Serafina. Sold like cattle by people who should have protected her. Antonio may have saved her, but he also poisoned her against us.”

“Maybe because you were the ones doing the trafficking?”

The slap comes fast, sharp enough to make my ears ring. But I don’t flinch. Won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Maria belonged with her family. Just like you do.”

“I belong with my father. The man who actually protected me instead of trying to murder me.”

“Antonio filled your head with lies.”

“Antonio told me the truth. That you’re a psychopathic piece of shit who thinks women are property.”

Another slap. This one hard enough to split my lip.

“You’ll learn respect.”

“I’ll learn to spit blood in your face.”

And I do. Right across his expensive suit, watching the red droplets stain the silk like tiny promises of violence.

He doesn’t hit me again. Just smiles that cold, calculating smile that makes my skin crawl.

“You have spirit. Just like Maria did, before we taught her better.”

“You didn’t teach my mother anything except why she needed to run.”

“Maria learned her place eventually. Just like you will.”

“My place is wherever the fuck I decide it is.”

“Your place,” he says, standing up and smoothing his tie, “is with your family. Your real family. The blood that made you.”

“Blood doesn’t make family. Love does. And there’s no love here.”

“There will be. Given time.”

“There won’t be. Given anything.”

He walks to the window, looking out at grounds that probably require a small army of groundskeepers. “You think you’re alone in this. You think it’s just you against us.”

“It is just me against you.”

“No, Serafina. It’s not.”

Something in his tone makes my blood turn to ice.

“What does that mean?”

He turns back to me, and his smile could power a nuclear winter.

“You’ll change your mind—after you meet the others we kept alive.”