2. Serafina
CHAPTER 2
Serafina
P ulses dance a rumba in my chest as I push through the gym door, Lucas' card a solid weight against my palm. The cool evening air does nothing to chill the flush on my face or slow my racing heart. I'm out, but the heat from his gaze lingers, branding me with every heavy step toward my car.
I slide the card into my pocket like a stolen treasure. My fingers tingle from the contact, and it's not just from the rough texture of the paper.
My white Maserati waits, sleek and silent — my momentary escape from a life that's more a cage than anything else. I click the fob and she chirps back at me, lights blinking a welcome. I slide into the driver's seat, smooth cream leather embracing me like a long-lost lover.
I pull out the business card once again. Gym Owner – a title that carries weight, much like the belts that hang on his gym walls, each a testament to his skill.
"Owner, huh?" I muse to myself, tracing the embossed letters. The card is simple, with no frills or fancy fonts.
His image flashes in my mind — that rugged jawline, the dark tousled hair that begs fingers to run through it. That rock-hard midsection that begs to be touched. Hell, even licked. And those grey eyes, damn, they're like hooks, pulling you into depths you know you should avoid. It's more than physical; there's a pull, an invisible thread tugging at something deep within me.
My mind's a whirlwind, images of Lucas' gym replaying like a highlight reel. Those belts — damn, they looked good on the wall. Symbols of power, strength... freedom. Each one tells a story, and I can't help but wonder about the fists that fought for them. About his fists.
I fire up the Quattroporte's engine. She purrs, a predator ready to pounce, and for a second, the sound drowns out the chaos in my head. I grip the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, feeling the connection to something tangible, something real.
This is the only way. I have to be my own protector. The constant attacks from the Fabietti family have made it clear that I can no longer rely on my family's power and influence to keep me safe. I must learn to protect myself, even if it goes against my family's wishes to stay hidden.
Out of harm's way.
Lucas is more than a pair of grey eyes I could get lost in; he's my ticket to survival. The best boxer in the city, they say. And I need to be the best to make it through the battles that come with my family name.
Whether I like it or not.
But before shifting my car into drive, my fingers dance over the screen of my phone, a waltz of necessity over want. His number is already saved — an act of rebellion or foresight, I'm not sure which. The message has to be just right, nothing that betrays the tremor in my hands or the pounding in my chest.
Serafina
Hey Lucas, this is Serafina. I'm interested in those one-on-one boxing lessons. Let me know your availability.
Send.
It's out there, floating in the digital ether, a plea wrapped in indifference.
I lock the phone before I can second guess the words. The Maseratis don't show weakness, especially not to men who have no part in our world. Even if his eyes lingered a little too long, even if his smile stirred something reckless deep within.
I throw the car into gear, and she leaps forward, responding to my touch like we're one being. As I drive away, streetlights streak by in a blur.
I don't get very far when, out of my peripheral vision, I catch the screen's glow as it springs to life with his reply, the tiny vibration against my palm sending a jolt straight to my heart. I let my car's system vocalize the text: "Tomorrow, 6 AM sharp. Don't be late, Serafina." Lucas's message is curt and professional, but my name at the end feels like a secret handshake.
I continue to drive, watching the city blur past me, a mosaic of shadow and light. I grip the steering wheel tighter, each turn taking me further from Lucas's gym – and closer to the life I'm chained to.
Numbers, figures, ledgers. That's where I've lived for as long as I can remember, in the cold precision of accounting for the family longshoreman business. It's a necessary aspect of laundering money from our less legitimate ventures. But numbers never screamed like my mother when they came rushing into our home without so much as a warning, didn't bleed like Papa's face. No, numbers don't teach you how to survive.
I dream of days when my life is consumed by simplicity. By plants. I imagine my hands in the soil, not bloodstained money. Fenestrated and variegated foliage, not vendettas. But dreams are a luxury, and I'm a Mancini – and I'll be dammed if I'm ever going to let someone make me feel as helpless as I did that day.
Tomorrow, I step into the ring. Lucas's world. Where fists speak louder than last names, where I can be just Serafina, not a pawn in a mafia chess game. Where my curves will do more than attract powerful men my family insist I marry. Where my not size-zero jeans have no place to be judged by people who make up their minds about me before they even get to know me.
I should be used to being looked at as a pawn in someone else's game. It's always been that way. Even in college, when someone found out my family had a little money, they changed how they treated me, as if I were a free meal ticket.
Had those individuals known who my family was, they would have never dared look my way. But I fought tooth and nail for my family to allow my college experience to be somewhat normal. Even if it meant lying to school friends about my family's real business. Even if it meant not being a part of school functions out of fear that someone might recognize them and, in turn, put us in harm's way.
A small part of me knew that this would be the only time in my life that I would ever have the chance to at least pretend to be normal, so I took it. And I'm glad I did.
The moment college was over, though, I got sucked back into the mafia world. Only this time, talks of me being the daughter who would one day have to marry into another powerful family for the greater good of the business were a daily conversation. For our family legacy to live on through me and my future children.
What I would give to live a life that's all mine. A life with the choice to do whatever I want. Which is another reason I have to learn to fight.
The sun dips low, painting the horizon in hues of orange and purple by the time I pull into my family's estate. My fingers drum against the steering wheel, an anxious rhythm to match the flutter in my chest. Excitement buzzes under my skin at the thought of tomorrow's lesson, mingling with a thread of trepidation. Lucas—my boxing coach, or so I must keep reminding myself.
No need for the skipped heartbeat when his name crosses my mind.
Stepping out of the car, I let the evening breeze kiss my heated cheeks. The scent of lavender hangs heavy in the air, a perfume meant to soothe. But it can't quite calm the storm within me—the whirlwind of emotions swirling deep within me. From the anxiety of keeping the boxing lessons a secret from my family to how my heart skips a beat whenever I think about a man I barely know.