Chapter Thirty-eight
Serena
“I’m yours, Lorenzo,” I breathe against his mouth, the confession slipping out like a vow I was born already owing him.
His hand tightens at my waist, possessive, grounding. “I know.” His voice is rough, threaded with heat, but there’s something else beneath it. Something heavier. Something waiting.
I’m still caught in the haze of him, the warmth of his body, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing in this world worth claiming, when he murmurs, “Do you think it’s a good time to tell you what I wanted to talk about when I got home?”
The words pull me back just enough to clear the fog in my head.
I still against him, searching his face. “That sounds serious.”
“It is.”
I lean back slightly so I can see him properly. His blue eyes hold mine, intense and unguarded in a way that makes my chest tighten. Lorenzo doesn’t hesitate in fights. He doesn’t hesitate when he gives orders. But now. . . he’s bracing himself.
“Well?” I try to smile, to lighten the sudden weight in the air. “You said you’d make it quick.”
He exhales slowly, like a man stepping into gunfire.
“I’m the Capo of Cosa Nostra.”
For a second, I just stare at him.
Not because I don’t understand what that means, I do.
I’ve known for a long time that Lorenzo’s world isn’t clean.
I know about New York, Chicago, Vegas. I know about alliances whispered about in private rooms, about the Bratva ties, about the Italian blood that runs old and powerful through certain families.
I knew he was connected.
I didn’t know he would end up at the top.
“You’re. . . the Capo,” I repeat quietly, the word settling between us like a crown made of iron.
“Say something,” he says, softer now, his thumb brushing over my knuckles like he’s afraid I might pull away.
“How?” That’s all I can manage. Because this isn’t just a promotion. This is a life sentence.
“My father was the Capo before he died,” he says. “Before he passed, he made an arrangement. They weren’t supposed to involve me unless I chose it.”
I frown. “So what changed?”
He looks at me in that way he only does when he’s stripped down to truth. “Luciano.”
The name makes my stomach twist. Lorenzo notices, and laces his fingers with mine.
“We took him down,” he continues. “After that, the plan was to put Dante in place. That’s what everyone thought would happen.” His jaw tightens. “But they’d been waiting for me.”
“For you,” I whisper.
He nods once. “Bloodline still matters to them. The Moretti name still carries weight. They see me as the rightful successor.”
“You said they wouldn’t force you,” I remind him, my mind racing. “That it was your choice.”
“It was.” His voice doesn’t waver. “And I said yes.”
My heart stutters, not in fear of him, but in fear of what this means. “Why?”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
“To protect you. And the children.”
Emotion surges so fast it almost hurts. “You already protect us,” I say gently.
His gaze hardens, not at me, at the truth he’s lived with longer than I have.
“Not like this. I could shield you from your father. From enemies I knew about. From threats I could see coming.” His grip on my hand tightens.
“But my family is Cosa Nostra. We helped build it. That power doesn’t just disappear because I try to live quietly. ”
A cold understanding spreads through me.
“Luciano came after you,” he continues, “because he knew the Moretti would rise again. He wanted that marriage to tie his bloodline to ours, to hold power when the crown shifted back.” His eyes burn into mine. “If I stayed on the outside, other families would try different ways to get control.”
My voice is barely there. “Through us.”
“Through you,” he says. “Through our children. Pressure. Threats. Arrangements.” His jaw clenches. “I couldn’t risk them growing up as leverage.”
The room feels smaller, like the walls are listening.
“So you stepped in,” I murmur.
“I stepped up,” he corrects quietly. “Now I have authority. Control. No one moves against my family without declaring war.” His thumb brushes my cheek, unexpectedly tender. “I’d rather carry the weight than let it fall on you.”
Tears blur my vision, not from fear, from the overwhelming certainty in him. In us.
“What does this mean for our family?” I ask, because that’s what we are. Not just lovers. Not just survivors. A family.
“It means more protection,” he says. “More eyes. More security. It also means more enemies. Bigger ones.” His forehead rests against mine. “But it means no one touches you without answering to me.”
My stomach dips at the reality of it, but my heart, my heart is steady.
“You chose chains,” I whisper.
“I chose you,” he answers.
And that’s it. That’s the truth beneath the title, beneath the power, beneath the blood.
I slide my arms around his neck and hold him, not because he’s the Capo, not because he’s feared, not because he commands an empire built in shadows, but because he walked into the darkness willingly, just to build a wall between it and us.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him.
His arms come around me like a promise, like a fortress.
“Neither am I,” he says.
“Listen to me, love,” he says softly.
The endearment doesn’t match the steel in his posture, but it’s real, all of him is real right now. I lift my eyes to his, and the world narrows to that familiar blue, stormy and certain and terrified of nothing except hurting me.
“I know this is a lot,” he continues, his thumb brushing slowly over my cheekbone like he’s memorizing the feel of me. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think it was the best choice right now.”
I believe him. That’s the terrifying part. I believe him completely.
“I know,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens, emotion flickering behind the control he wears like armor.
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Serena.
” His voice roughens, fraying at the edges.
“The lines I’ll cross, fuck.” A low, angry breath leaves him, not at me, at the world, at fate, at every threat that’s ever looked in our direction.
“You and the babies are my entire world. Please know that.”
My heart aches at the way he says it, not like a declaration of ownership, but like a confession of devotion. Like a man who has already decided he’d burn for us and is just asking me not to hate him for the smoke.
“Please know this isn’t about me wanting power,” he adds, his forehead lowering to mine. “It’s about me needing the power to destroy anything that’s a threat to you.”
There it is. Not ambition. Not ego.
And he’s choosing to stand at the front of it so it never reaches our door.
“I know,” I tell him again, and this time my voice is stronger. Surer. Because I do. I see it now, the weight he picked up without hesitation, the crown he never wanted but took anyway, just to build a higher wall around us.
I slide my hand to his chest, over his heart, feeling the steady, relentless beat beneath my palm. “And I still choose you.”
Him.
The man who would chain himself to a throne made of blood and shadows if it meant our children grow up in the light.
His eyes close for a second, like my words undo something tight inside him. When he looks at me again, there’s no doubt there. No fear I’ll run.
Only love. Fierce. Absolute. Ours.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
Those two words crack something open inside my chest.
Because I hear everything he is not saying.
The nights he broke quietly. The rage he swallowed.
The fear he buried so deep no one else ever saw it.
I remember what Andres told me, how Lorenzo lost his mind when I disappeared.
How he chased me anyway. How he kept choosing me even when I made it hard, even when I pushed him away with one hand and pulled him back with the other.
I think about all the times I let him hold me, let him love me, let him be my safe place, and then convinced myself I had to walk away.
And he still came back.
Every time I called.
Every time I needed him.
Every time I shattered, he was there to gather the pieces like they had always belonged to him.
I meant it when I told him I love him with all my heart.
But the truth settles deeper now, heavy and humbling.
He has always loved me louder. Stronger. Without hesitation.
My fingers curl into his shirt, gripping the fabric over his chest, needing to feel the steady strength of him under my hands. “You never had to thank me,” I whisper. “I’m yours too. Not just when it’s easy. All of it.”
His eyes darken, not with power, not with control, but with that fierce, consuming devotion that has always both terrified and steadied me.
The air between us shifts. The tenderness melts into heat, into need, into the kind of closeness only we understand.
I tilt my head, my lips brushing near his, a slow, wicked smile curving my mouth. The weight of everything he just confessed does not disappear, but it transforms into something raw and alive between us.
I fist his shirt and pull him down just enough to make him feel the challenge. “You’ve been looking at me like you’re starving,” I murmur. “So tell me, Capo. . . are you going to stand there pretending you have self-control, or are you finally going to fuck me?”
That slow, dangerous smile spreads again, full of confidence and heat, like he’s already three steps ahead of me.
“Oh, love,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing as his hands settle at my waist, sure and unhurried. “You say that like I haven’t been thinking about it all day.”
He leans in just enough for me to feel his breath, his eyes locked on mine with playful arrogance.
“Relax,” he adds softly, a cocky edge to his tone. “I’m about to give you a very convincing demonstration of how much I love you.”
Oh.