Chapter 5

Serafina

I’m still sitting on this pathetic excuse for a bathtub, pregnancy test burning a hole in my palm, when it hits me like a freight train carrying pure terror.

What if it’s a girl?

The thought slices through me so sharp I actually gasp. A daughter. My daughter. Growing up in this house, under Viviana’s poisonous influence, watching her son treat women like disposable ornaments.

I see her at sixteen, getting married off to some Verrelli ally’s son because that’s what good Italian daughters do. I see her at twenty-five, standing where I’m standing now, throwing up in a guest bathroom while her husband fucks someone else upstairs.

“No.” The word comes out strangled. “No, no, no.”

Above me, the bed creaks get more urgent, and I want to scream. I want to march up there and throw this test at Matteo’s head and watch his world implode the way mine has.

But I don’t.

Because suddenly, with crystal fucking clarity, I know exactly what I have to do.

I have to leave. Tonight. Right fucking now.

I’m not raising my child in this house of psychological warfare. I’m not letting my daughter grow up thinking this is what love looks like. I’m not subjecting another generation to the Verrelli family’s particular brand of soul-crushing manipulation.

The sounds from upstairs reach a crescendo, and I use the noise to cover my movements. I stuff clothes into a gym bag—whatever I can grab quietly. My jewelry, what little cash I keep hidden, my passport. The essentials for disappearing.

My hands shake as I pack. Three years of marriage, and this is what I’m leaving with. A bag of clothes and a pregnancy test.

But it’s enough. It has to be enough.

I slip out of the blue room like a ghost, bare feet silent on the marble floors. The estate is dark, everyone either asleep or… occupied. Perfect.

I’m almost to the side door—the one that leads to the gardens, the one I can slip through without triggering the main security system—when a voice stops me cold.

“Going somewhere, cara mia?”

Don Verrelli steps out of the shadows like he materialized from my worst nightmares.

And here’s the thing about Don Verrelli—in three years of living in this house, the man has maybe spoken fifty words to me total. Not because he hates me like Viviana, or because he enjoys tormenting me like Bianca. He’s just… there. Like expensive furniture that occasionally moves and drinks whiskey.

He’s the ghost of this house. Shows up at family dinners, sits at the head of the table, cuts his meat with surgical precision, and disappears back into whatever cave he crawled out of. Never gives me orders—that’s Viviana’s department. Never comments on my failures—that’s Bianca’s specialty. He’s just this presence, this shadow in a thousand-dollar suit who watches everything and says nothing.

Until now.

Which is why seeing him here, at three in the fucking morning, wearing his evening clothes like he’s been waiting for me, makes my blood turn to actual ice.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I lie, clutching my bag behind my back. “Thought I’d get some air.”

His laugh is dry as winter, and it’s weird hearing him laugh at all because I don’t think I’ve ever seen him express an emotion beyond vague disapproval. “With luggage?”

Shit.

“It’s just—”

“It’s three in the morning, and you’re sneaking out of my house like a thief.” His voice drops to that gravelly whisper that’s somehow more terrifying than shouting. “So I’ll ask again. Where are you going?”

I straighten my spine, meeting his eyes. “Away from here.”

“Ah.” He takes a sip of whiskey, savoring it. “And where exactly is ‘away,’ Serafina? You have no family. No money of your own. No connections outside this family.”

Each word is a calculated blow, designed to remind me how trapped I am.

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Will you?” He moves closer, and I catch the scent of expensive cologne and old leather. “A woman alone, with nothing but the clothes on her back? How very… American of you.”

There’s that word again. American. Like independence is some kind of disease.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“To talk.” He gestures toward his study. “Just the two of us.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“Perfect time for honesty, don’t you think?” His smile is all teeth, no warmth. “Come. Sit. Let’s discuss your… situation.”

I don’t move. “What situation?”

“The one that has you sneaking out in the middle of the night while my son is upstairs with his new wife.” His eyes glitter in the dim light. “The one that has you looking like you’ve seen a ghost. The one that has you making decisions that could be very… dangerous for everyone involved.”

My blood turns to ice. Does he know? About the pregnancy? About whatever was in that letter?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.” He turns toward his study, expecting me to follow. “But you will. After we talk.”

I stand there for a moment, bag clutched in my hands, escape route so close I can taste it. I could run. Right now. Sprint for the gardens and hope I make it to the main road before he calls security.

But where would I go? He’s right about that. No family, no money, no connections. And now… now I’m not just running for me.

“Serafina.” His voice carries that particular tone that means this isn’t a request anymore. “Come.”