Chapter Four
Serena
I can’t stop myself.
Curled under the covers, phone in hand, the soft glow of the screen is the only light in the room. Midnight thoughts even though it’s morning, dangerous thoughts, ones I shouldn’t feed, but here I am, searching Lorenzo Moretti.
I scroll, faster than I should.
Breaking News: Giovanni Moretti Has Passed Away.
My stomach clenches.
His father. Giovanni, the man who built the Moretti Empire from scratch and ruled it like a king, dead at 56.
Heart attack, they say.
Right.
When men like him die, there’s always more to the story.
I scroll further.
Paparazzi photos flood the feed, most of them of him.
There’s one from the beach. His dark brown hair is wet, curling slightly at the ends from the saltwater. His skin bronzed, tattoos trailing down his arms and disappearing beneath swim trunks that sit low on his hips. I swallow, cheeks burning.
Another photo catches my eye.
An event. Black suit, crisp shirt open just enough to reveal his chest, just enough to tease.
A woman is on his arm.
She’s gorgeous.
Tall, model body, long legs. Her lips are painted red, like a warning sign: mine.
For a second, just a second, I wonder what it feels like to be her.
To belong to him.
To stand at his side while the world watches, knowing he’d burn it all to the ground just to protect what’s his.
I shake the thought away.
Gosh, what’s wrong with me?
I scroll further.
And then I see it.
An anonymous post buried between polished Forbes articles and fake charity galas:
“Lorenzo Moretti: mafia prince? Several of his competitors have mysteriously disappeared after private meetings. Oddly enough, his business keeps thriving.”
I feel the chill slide down my back.
My thumb hovers, but I keep reading.
There’s another post from the same account.
“Is the heir of the Moretti Empire the most ruthless man New York has ever seen? Rumor has it, he once beat two men to death with his bare hands. NYPD has yet to confirm.”
My throat tightens.
I toss the phone on the bed, my pulse hammering.
I open Instagram.
@LorenzoMoretti.
His feed is exactly what I expect, minimal. Controlled. Calculated.
Chess boards.
Half-finished games. Captions in Italian I don’t understand.
A boxing ring. His taped hands in focus, veins like ropes, scars across his knuckles.
Another photo from a gala, the shadows hide half his face, like he planned it that way.
No smiles. No family photos. No careless selfies.
Just fragments of a man no one really knows.
His Instagram is boring.
“Honey, are you awake?”
My mother’s voice breaks the silence, soft but unusually excited. Her nails tap delicately against my door like she’s knocking on porcelain.
“Yes, come in,” I answer, locking my phone screen quickly.
The door opens and she steps inside, and for a moment, I blink.
She’s stunning.
Her long blonde hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, no strand out of place.
Her silk blouse, champagne-colored, of course, flows perfectly over her frame, paired with a tight black skirt that hugs her hips, the expensive fabric whispering money and status.
Her heels click softly on the hardwood. The subtle nude lipstick, the faint blush, the glow of her skin, it’s like yesterday’s version of her never existed.
I wonder what changed overnight.
Or maybe this is just how she copes, wipe away the blood, put on another mask.
“You should get dressed soon, darling,” she says, smoothing imaginary wrinkles on her skirt. Her voice is light, melodic. The kind of voice she uses when there are cameras, or when she’s pretending.
“Thomas wants us to have lunch together. And guess what? John and Ian will be joining us too. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Her eyes sparkle, and for some reason, it makes my stomach tighten.
Why does she sound so thrilled? It’s just lunch.
“Yes. Amazing.”
My voice is a blade wrapped in velvet.
I slip into my closet, choosing a black fitted office dress that hugs my curves just enough to avoid criticism but not enough to invite it.
Nude heels. A sweep of mascara, some concealer to hide the exhaustion under my eyes, and clear lip gloss.
I leave my hair straight, long and loose down my back.
Effortless. Or at least, that’s what I want them to think.
When I walk into the kitchen, everything is perfect. Of course.
It looks like a five-star Michelin set-up, but I know better. My mother didn’t cook. She ordered in, yet she managed to arrange the dishes like she just stepped out of a lifestyle magazine. White porcelain plates. Crystal glasses. The silverware polished to the point of obsession.
Steak for the men.
Grilled chicken with salad for the women, because God forbid we get above a size four.
I should stop judging her, but I can’t. It’s easier than forgiving her.
“Everything looks amazing, Mom.”
I try to sound warm, but my lips barely curve. It’s more of a sad smile, the kind that aches in your jaw.
Her eyes flick to mine, but she looks through me. Like I’m glass. She smiles back, shallow and hollow. A rehearsed expression, not real emotion.
The front door opens. My father enters the room, John Archibald right beside him. Of course. They always come as a pair, two sides of the same rotten coin.
My mother’s entire face changes, lights up like she’s on stage. Her smile widens unnaturally, her body language shifts, shoulders back, chest lifted, hips tilted just enough to be feminine but submissive.
And John’s eyes?
They linger on her. Too long. Too shameless. His gaze slithers over her body like she’s prey.
I clench my jaw.
She floats over to my father, John’s stare glued to her ass, and she kisses my father’s cheek like she’s the perfect, loyal wife.
“Welcome home, my love. Lunch is ready,” she purrs.
Then, with feigned innocence, she looks around the room, her tone softer but still syrupy sweet.
“Is Ian not joining us?”
John’s eyes roam over my mother again, and for a split second, the urge to grab the steak knife and plunge it into his eye flashes through my mind.
Gosh. What the hell is wrong with me?
But the thought lingers, heavy and intrusive, like a devil perched on my shoulder. Watching him ogle her like that? It makes my skin crawl.
“Ian’s busy at work today,” John finally says, breaking the tension while casually reaching for his glass of wine. His tone is cool, indifferent.
We all take our seats. My father, of course, claims the head of the table, the king of his castle, in his tailored suit, polished cufflinks, and false sense of control.
To his right, my mother, poised and perfect, sits with her practiced smile and rigid posture.
To his left? John Archibald. Right where he wants to be.
I lean over, press a soft kiss on my father’s cheek. “Hi, John,” I greet him politely, pretending not to notice the way his eyes flick down my body for just a second too long. Typical.
I slip into the seat next to my mother, my spine straight, my face neutral. Perfect daughter. Perfect family.
Perfect facade.
The conversation shifts quickly to business.
Deals, meetings, partnerships. I don’t really listen, my ears tuning in only when my father’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket.
His jaw tightens slightly, his lips a flat line, but he doesn’t break character.
My mother notices though, her eyes flick to his phone, then back to his face.
She smiles wider, leans in, touches his shoulder.
It’s almost… affectionate. Too affectionate for my mother.
John sits quietly, chewing his steak like nothing is happening, but I see the way his eyes flicker.
“Are you excited for Monday, Serena?” John’s voice cuts through the tension as he dabs his mouth with the linen napkin, pretending this is all normal.
I force a polite smile.
“I am, actually,” I reply, my tone smooth, controlled. I give him exactly what he wants to hear. “A fresh start is exactly what I need. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
Translation: Thank you for pulling strings to get me the job so I’ll owe you later.
He nods approvingly, like I passed a test. His lips curve into a satisfied smile while he compliments my mother’s cooking, knowing damn well she ordered everything from one of Manhattan’s finest caterers. But no one mentions that.
My father’s phone vibrates again, longer this time. His gaze hardens, and he excuses himself with a clipped, “I have to take this.”
The second he leaves, John leans back, swirls the red wine in his glass like he’s enjoying the finest entertainment. His eyes are sharp, assessing.
“It’ll be good for you to work close to Ian,” he says, his tone casual but his words heavy.
“You two are such good friends,” he adds with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You’ll have an ally at your side. Always.”
An ally or a leash?
I nod, swallowing the acid that rises in my throat.
“Of course,” I say, forcing my lips into a polite curve as I finish my salad, trying not to stab the fork into my hand just to feel something else.
When my father returns, the conversation slides right back into business like nothing happened.
They make plans, shake hands, seal whatever deals were silently made during lunch.
My father kisses my mother on the cheek like a man proud of his perfect wife and his perfect life.
John gives her a lingering glance before saying his goodbye, and my mother beams like she just won a prize.
As soon as the door closes behind them, she practically floats around the kitchen like she’s accomplished some grand victory.
“I’m heading to the mall,” she says, grabbing her purse. “I need a new wardrobe. And you do, too, darling. You should come.”
I shake my head softly.
“Maybe another time, Mom. I’m exhausted.”
Her smile is tight, but she lets it go. She leaves with the same elegance she walked in with, heels clicking on the floor, perfume trailing in the air like a ghost of the woman she used to be.
When the house finally falls silent, I sink into the couch, pulling my phone out for a distraction.
My notifications explode with Sienna’s updates from Japan, she looks gorgeous, radiant, genuinely happy in every picture.
I double tap the photos, forcing a smile, pretending for a moment that my life is as light and carefree as hers.
Then, my screen lights up again.
A message from Ian.
Ian: I’m sorry I missed lunch. Got stuck at work. I’ll see you Monday. Miss you.
Me: My mother ordered most of the food. Don’t worry about it. See you Monday, miss u too.
Ian: I figured. Lauren’s cooking is awful, and my father couldn’t stop praising her steak.
Me: I’m sure he enjoyed the view of her more than her cooking.
Ian: Don’t mind him.
Don’t mind him.
Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have to sit at that table, pretending not to notice the way his father’s eyes linger on my mother’s legs, her lips, her smile that’s stretched too thin.
He doesn’t have to wonder how long it’s been going on, or if it ever stopped.
I don’t reply.
I toss my phone on the bed and let the weight of everything settle over me like a heavy blanket. I won’t do this tonight. I won’t spiral. I won’t bleed my thoughts dry over things I can’t control.
So, I do the only thing I can,
I check out.
I run a hot bath.
I wash my hair, letting the water burn my skin just enough to remind me I’m alive.
I do my skincare routine, methodically, like following the steps will somehow hold me together.
I curl up on the couch with my book but don’t absorb a single word.
I flip through TV channels like a ghost.
And for the rest of the night, I allow myself to become something soft and numb.
A body without a heart.
A mind without thoughts.
A girl, just floating.