Chapter Twenty-four
Serena
After I tried to convince Kylie to put on a Christmas song, she declared she had a better idea.
Now “Slut Me Out” by NLE Choppa is blasting at maximum volume, vibrating through the car like we’re heading to a club instead of a Russian Mafia mansion.
What surprises me most isn’t the song itself, but the fact that Kylie knows every single lyric.
Perfectly. Like she wrote the damn thing herself.
Sienna matches her energy without missing a beat, singing along just as loudly, throwing her hands in the air whenever the chorus hits.
I can’t help laughing, the sound slipping out of me before I even realize it.
Clara is smiling too, quieter than the others, but her eyes are lit with amusement.
For a moment, it feels normal. Loud music, friends packed into a car, ridiculous confidence filling every inch of the space.
Kylie is driving, hands steady on the wheel despite the chaos she’s creating. I’m in the passenger seat, while Sienna and Clara are squeezed into the back. I usually take the back seat, but they insisted I needed more space. Apparently, pregnancy has upgraded me to VIP seating.
This belly has given me the biggest glow-up of my life.
My hair is shinier, falling in soft waves over my shoulders.
My skin looks luminous, like it’s lit from within.
Every tight dress clings to me perfectly now, my breasts fuller, my curves softer but more pronounced.
Pregnancy hasn’t dulled me. If anything, it sharpened me.
I glance in the side mirror and immediately spot Lorenzo’s black G Wagon right behind us.
He told us to drive ahead, but he’s practically glued to our bumper, zero distance between the cars.
Typical. Protective to the point of obsession.
The sight of him following us sends a strange mix of comfort and unease through my chest.
Forty minutes of unapologetically slutty music later, we turn into a long, imposing driveway. Tall gates loom ahead, wrought iron and stone, opening slowly as we approach. The car rolls forward, and I realize this isn’t just an entrance. It’s a statement.
The drive from the gates to the mansion itself takes at least five minutes. Five full minutes of manicured hedges, symmetrical gardens, and security that’s visible even when it pretends not to be. I’ve always been pleased with the house I live in now. It’s beautiful. Elegant. Safe.
But this?
This is something else entirely.
The mansion rises ahead of us, massive and commanding, all clean lines and pale stone, modern but severe.
There’s nothing warm about it. It doesn’t welcome you.
It assesses you. The architecture feels deliberate, calculated, like every angle was designed to remind you exactly who holds the power here.
I swallow, my hand instinctively resting on my belly.
Behind us, Lorenzo’s car follows through the gates, dark and silent, like a shadow that never leaves. And as the mansion comes fully into view, I can’t shake the feeling that once we step inside, nothing about tonight will be simple.
It takes Kylie five full minutes to park the car, even though the parking lot is completely empty.
To be fair, I’m terrible at parking too, so I keep my mouth shut.
After five minutes of dramatic reversing, stopping, and starting over, she finally announces she’s done trying and decides to show us how her Tesla parks itself.
The car slides perfectly into place.
I stare at the dashboard, impressed.
I’ve officially decided I’m buying a Tesla.
While we’re struggling with the parking situation, two more black G Wagons pull in and park neatly beside Lorenzo’s car. The moment I step out, my breath catches in my throat.
Three black cars. Four men standing in front of them.
They look like the four horsemen.
All of them are dressed in black suits, sharp and tailored, the kind of men who don’t need to raise their voices to be obeyed. The sight of them makes something warm and dangerous coil low in my stomach.
Lorenzo stands in the center, like the axis everything else revolves around.
He looks carved out of sin. His dark brown hair is freshly cut, the lazy curls falling onto his forehead just enough to soften him, even though nothing about him is soft.
When his eyes find mine, that familiar smirk curves his lips, and I feel heat rush to my face.
Andres stands slightly behind him, posture alert, eyes constantly moving. He looks exactly like what he is, security incarnate. Controlled. Watchful. Dangerous in a quiet way.
Lev looks like chaos personified. He’s the biggest of them all, broad and imposing, his arms covered in tattoos that peek out from beneath his suit. His blond hair is messy, like he couldn’t care less what anyone thinks, and the energy rolling off him feels unpredictable, volatile.
And then there’s Julian.
Clara’s brother.
He’s as tall as Lorenzo, probably around six-four, with jet-black hair and eyes just as dark.
His hair is long enough to fall over his forehead, shaved clean on the sides.
It’s similar to Lorenzo’s style, but darker, sharper.
No curls. No softness. His presence is heavy, grounded, the kind of man who looks like he’s learned how to survive by fighting.
I haven’t seen him much. He’s always been traveling for UFC fights. Seeing him like this, standing among them, I understand why people don’t cross him.
Lorenzo doesn’t waste time. He comes straight to me and laces his fingers through mine, grounding me instantly.
“We need to go inside,” he announces to everyone. His voice leaves no room for argument. “Each of you has a partner.”
Sienna’s face tightens immediately.
“What?” she asks, suspicious.
I can’t help smiling.
Lorenzo sighs, like he’s already tired of explaining. “Just for the entrance,” he says calmly. “Clara will go with Andres. Kylie with Julian.” Then he turns to Sienna, gesturing lightly. “And you will go with Lev.”
The relief on Sienna’s face is unmistakable.
“Okay,” she says quickly. “That’s fine.”
We move toward the main entrance together, Lorenzo and I leading the way. The doors are tall and heavy, flanked by stone columns and discreet security. A beautiful woman stands just inside, holding a tablet, her posture elegant and professional.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Moretti,” she says softly.
Heat floods my cheeks. I hate how good that sounds.
Lorenzo glances at me, his expression apologetic but amused, like he knows exactly what that title does to me. I want to tell him how perfectly his surname fits with my first name. How natural it sounds. How dangerous that thought is.
Instead, I say nothing.
We step inside, the warmth and low hum of voices enveloping us. A bartender appears almost immediately, offering drinks. Lorenzo takes one for me without asking, already knowing what I’ll want, and places it carefully in my hand.
Behind us, the others introduce themselves.
“Rivera and his plus one,” Andres says, guiding Clara inside.
“Mr. Morozov, welcome back,” the woman says to Lev. He grins and pulls her into a brief, friendly hug.
“Carter and his plus one,” Julian says smoothly as he follows Kylie inside.
The doors close behind us.
And just like that, we’re in.
The moment we step fully inside, I forget how to breathe.
The entrance opens into a vast hall that feels more like a palace than a home.
Marble floors stretch endlessly beneath my feet, polished to such a mirror shine that the golden lights above reflect back at me, doubling the glow.
Every step echoes softly, controlled, elegant, as if even sound knows how to behave in a place like this.
At the center of it all stands the Christmas tree.
It’s enormous. Tall enough to rival the balconies above, dressed in gold, champagne, and warm white lights.
Ornaments shimmer delicately, reflecting crystal chandeliers that hang from the ceiling like constellations frozen in place.
Wrapped gifts are stacked beneath the tree with surgical precision, each one perfectly aligned, lavish without being excessive.
The scent of pine, citrus, and something warm and spiced lingers in the air, expensive and comforting at the same time.
Twin staircases curve upward on either side of the hall, their banisters wrapped in greenery and gold ribbon, subtle fairy lights woven through the garlands. Above, a balcony circles the space, its railings trimmed in the same festive elegance. Everything feels intentional. Measured. Controlled.
I tighten my grip on Lorenzo’s hand without realizing it.
Men are everywhere.
They stand in small clusters, scattered throughout the hall, all dressed in impeccably tailored suits.
Black, charcoal, deep navy. No loud colors.
No unnecessary gestures. Their conversations are low, contained, the kind that never needs to rise above a murmur.
These are men who are used to being listened to, not overheard.
“Oh my God. When Lorenzo said you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, he didn’t lie.”
The voice is warm, melodic, carrying a familiarity that instantly disarms me.
I turn toward it and find a stunning woman in her mid-forties, blonde curls framing her face, blue eyes bright with curiosity and kindness.
She looks effortlessly elegant, the kind of woman who commands a room without trying.
“Mom. That’s rude,” a younger voice cuts in immediately. “I’m standing right next to you.”
I blink and notice the girl beside her, unmistakably her daughter. Sixteen, maybe. A miniature version in every possible way. The same blonde curls, the same blue eyes, the same sharp beauty. She looks offended but amused, arms crossed, lips pursed in exaggerated annoyance.
“Reina,” Lorenzo says, stepping forward smoothly.