Serafina

Don Verrelli is dead.

The news hits like a gut punch, which catches me completely off guard because I actually give a shit. Unlike the rest of his toxic family, Don Verrelli was the one person in that house who treated me like a human being instead of an inconvenient houseplant.

“Heart attack,” Father says, hanging up the phone. “Peaceful. In his sleep.”

I set down the pregnancy book I’ve been pretending to read and feel something uncomfortably close to grief settle in my chest. Don Verrelli was the ghost who left little kindnesses in his wake—extra blankets during winter, my favorite tea appearing in the kitchen, quiet nods of approval when I navigated family dinners without losing my shit.

He never said much, but what he did say mattered. “You’re stronger than they know,” he told me once, after a particularly brutal family dinner where Viviana had spent two hours dissecting my inadequacies. “Don’t let them convince you otherwise.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“Tomorrow. Will reading the day after.”

“Will reading?” I look up. “Why would I need to be there?”

“You’re still technically married to Matteo. And specifically requested to attend.”

“By who?”

“The deceased.”

That’s weird. Don Verrelli specifically wanted me at his will reading? The man barely spoke above a whisper in three years, but he made sure I’d be present for the legal distribution of his life’s work.

“Adrian’s driving you.”

“Adrian’s going to a will reading?”

“Also specifically requested.”

Even weirder. Adrian’s got zero connection to the Verrelli family beyond rescuing me from kidnapping attempts and making me question my life choices on a daily basis.

The law office screams “intimidating wealth” in every carefully curated detail. Dark wood that probably costs more per square foot than most people’s rent, leather-bound books that exist purely for aesthetic intimidation, and that particular scent of old money mixed with fresh despair.

The Verrelli family’s already assembled when Adrian and I walk in—Matteo looking like someone told him Christmas is canceled, Viviana dressed in mourning couture that probably cost more than a car, and Bianca examining her nails like the fate of empires depends on her cuticle maintenance.

“What are they doing here?” Bianca’s voice could strip paint.

“Attending a legal proceeding,” I reply. “Wild concept, I know.”

“You have no business—”

“Actually, Mrs. Verrelli has every legal right to be present,” interrupts Mr. Pemberton, the lawyer who looks like he charges by the syllable. “As does Mr. Vasquez.”

Viviana’s face goes through seventeen different expressions of outrage. “She’s getting divorced.”

“She’s not divorced yet.”

The family dynamic is perfect—three vultures circling what they assume is their inheritance, and two confused bystanders wondering why they’re part of this legal theater.

“Shall we begin?” Pemberton opens a folder thick enough to double as a weapon.

“Just cut to the chase,” Matteo says. “How much do I get?”

Pemberton’s smile could power a small city. “That’s the interesting part. You don’t.”

The silence that follows is so complete you could hear a trust fund dropping.

“I’m sorry, what?” Viviana’s voice climbs several octaves.

“Don Verrelli was very specific about his final wishes. The entire estate—properties, business interests, liquid assets, everything—goes to one person.”

“Matteo,” Bianca states like she’s announcing a universal truth.

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?” Matteo’s face is cycling through the color wheel like a broken mood ring.

“I mean the entirety of the Verrelli estate goes to Adrian Vasquez.”