Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
ROMAN
I spend the night fighting my sheets, sweating through the damn silk until it clings to me like I'd been caught in a riptide. Every time I close my eyes, there’s Serafina, that shark in Louboutins with those blood-red nails and a smile that never touches her eyes.
"Tell me you found something," I say, already sitting up.
"Nothing concrete on Orion," he says, his accent thicker than usual. "But I dug deeper. Six separate trades, Roman. All before major announcements. The SEC would have a field day with this."
"Send it all to me," I say, already calculating how to use this. "I want to see her face when she realizes I've got her."
He rattles off the damning list: the Orion trade from five years back when she'd spilled her secrets to Caspian over three bottles of vintage Bordeaux; Cohen and Friesz law firm stocks purchased days before a merger that sent shares soaring like eagles; dumped shares in Swedish toy company Flicka and Pojke, mere hours before their wooden train set was found to be a death trap for toddlers; Boeing stocks sold just before their planes started falling from the sky like wounded birds; and finally, a massive buy-in to Chinese EV company Red Star Motors, right before they unveiled a revolutionary battery that had Elon Musk grinding his teeth with envy.
I rub my hands together, a surge of adrenaline shooting through my veins. Checkmate, bitch. Two birds, one stone - I'll crush her until she backs off my father and Lilith, and I'll make damn sure she knows I've got Sven watching her every financial move like a hawk circling wounded prey.
If she even thinks about pulling this insider trading shit again, she'll rot in prison for 20 years minimum.
My conscience flickers - shouldn't I already be dialing the feds?
But hell no - I'd have to reveal how I got this intel, expose Sven, and that's a powder keg I'm not lighting unless I have to.
Serafina won't know my hesitation though.
I'll stare straight into those snake eyes of hers and make her believe I'm one heartbeat away from destroying her entire life if she so much as whispers about Lilith or Dad to a single living soul.
I call her. "Sera," I say. "Bone and Brass. Tonight. 7." Then I hang up.
My phone buzzes non-stop for the next several hours. I ignore it until curiosity gets the better of me. I scroll through her messages with mounting disbelief.
Are we finally going to talk about us?
Ten minutes after this message…
I knew you'd come around! I'll wear that black dress you couldn't take your eyes off last time. Can't wait to see you tonight. I love you, Roman.
Twenty minutes later…
Spring wedding at Lake Como would be perfect. The wisteria will be blooming against those mountains. We could have the whole resort to ourselves before tourist season!
One hour later…
Should we invite Spielberg? Get Max to reach out to him? I'm starting on the guest list now.
I toss my phone onto my desk. Christ. One dinner invitation and she's planning our wedding and Hollywood guest list. My phone buzzes again. Does this woman ever actually work?
My phone buzzes again and again and again throughout the day. Thirty-fucking-plus messages from Sera about "our special day." I grimace through the barrage of messages that are filled with her wedding wish list.
Annie Leibovitz for photos. Gordon Ramsay himself handling the menu.
Jamie Oliver for appetizers. Vera Wang designing her gown.
Christ. She drops these celebrity names like they're waiting by the phone for her call.
As if Annie Leibovitz gives a shit about wedding photography.
As if Gordon Ramsay isn't busy running about 50 different restaurant chains and appearing on approximately a gajillion television shows.
The only one who might actually do it is Jamie Oliver—didn't he offer something for Prince Harry's wedding?
That's what Sera thinks we are. Royalty.
Delusional bitch. I'll give her Vera Wang though—she did design something for Celeste when she married my brother. But still.
Each message makes my jaw clench tighter until I taste blood from biting the inside of my cheek.
I should feel guilty about what I'm about to do to her, but all I feel is rage burning through my veins when I think about her threatening Lilith.
The bitch crossed a line. I've always been ruthless in business—crushing competitors, finding weaknesses, exploiting opportunities—but I've never stooped to blackmail.
Never needed to. Serafina, though? She's a snake.
And I'm about to cut off her fucking head.
The five insider trading deals I have documented will destroy her.
Not just her career. Her entire life. And I won't lose a second of sleep over it.
I arrive at Bone and Brass at 7 and freeze mid-step.
Serafina. Jesus Christ. She's wearing black—not just any black—a dress that clings to every dangerous curve like it was painted on her skin by the devil himself.
Her blonde hair cascades down her back, catching the golden hour light like a halo mocking her intentions.
Those blood-red lips I used to devour are curved into a smile that's both invitation and weapon.
The hemline barely exists, revealing miles of toned legs that once wrapped around my waist, and the neckline plunges so deep I can practically see her heartbeat.
Yep. She thinks we're getting back together.
“Roman!" she says, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
"I can't wait to show you a picture of the church where I want the ceremony.
I'm thinking the Church of San Giovanni Battista in Varenna—that enchanting fishing village on the eastern shore of Lake Como, just a short drive from your resort.
The church's weathered stone facade has stood since 1010, watching over generations of lovers.
And that town! The Way of Lovers pathway hugs the crystalline water, while Villa Monastero's gardens burst with Mediterranean flowers and centuries-old cypress trees.
Those narrow cobblestone streets wind between homes painted in warm terracottas and sunny yellows...
I couldn't imagine anything more magical than saying our vows there as spring blossoms perfume the air. "
My blood boils. "Sera, we're not getting married. Not today. Not ever."
"Oh, but we are. We are!" Her bottom lip juts out, trembling. "I texted you all the wedding plans today and you never got back. If we weren't getting married, if you didn't want to get married, you would've texted me back to tell me that."
Jesus Christ. The twisted logic hits me like a sucker punch. I don't respond, so that means full steam ahead? My jaw clenches so tight I can hear my molars grinding. How the hell did I miss the Cat 5 hurricane of crazy all those years we dated?
I look Serafina straight in the eye. "Sera.
I need you to understand something. What we had—it wasn't love.
Not for me." My jaw tightens as I think about the countless nights in hotel suites across three continents.
Great sex, nothing more. "It's Lilith. She's..." The words catch, then break free.
"She's everything. And I’m in love with her.” There, I said it to somebody not named Lilith.
Something shifts inside me—like I've just signed my name to a declaration.
Even with Sera's mascara starting to run, I can already imagine saying those three words at the resort, at family dinner, anywhere Lilith stands beside me.
Her eyes flash. "Lilith." She spits the name like venom.
"She bewitched you. She admitted it to my face.
" She leans forward, voice dropping to a hiss.
"Black magic. The darkest kind. She's invaded your mind, Roman.
Violated you." Her fist slams the table.
"How can you not see it? She's cast a goddamn spell on you!
She doesn't love you—she's after the Kensington fortune!
" Her voice cracks with desperation. "She'll drain every account, every asset.
If you marry her, she'll hex you into your grave, and before your body's even cold, she'll be sprawled on some Mediterranean yacht, champagne dripping down her throat while boy toys worship at her feet—all paid for with your money. "
I can't help but laugh at the absurdity.
Hexes? Black magic? Lilith confessing to some elaborate supernatural trap?
Christ. If anyone should be writing fiction, it's Serafina.
She'd give my sister-in-law Celeste a run for her money, and Celeste's no amateur—Netflix limited series, Paramount features, even those saccharine Hallmark romances she cranks out like clockwork.
"Damn good," as Max always says. Maybe I should connect them; Serafina's delusions could fuel a decade of screenplays.
The woman runs hotels, but clearly she's wasting her talents. Hollywood's missing its star fantasist.
I sigh. A village is missing its idiot.
I lock eyes with Serafina, her perfectly plucked eyebrows arching in challenge.
"Tell you what," I say, my voice dropping to that dangerous octave my brothers recognize as the calm before the storm.
"I'll take my chances with Lilith." My jaw clenches so tight I can feel a muscle twitch beneath my five o'clock shadow.
"And you might think in your twisted head that she's an actual witch, stirring cauldrons and casting hexes.
I think you actually believe that, which makes you as narrow-minded as anyone I've ever met. "
My hands curl into fists at my sides, knuckles whitening.
The familiar heat of anger floods my chest, but it's different this time—protective, possessive.
I shouldn't care what this woman thinks, but goddamn it, I do.
The thought of anyone slandering Lilith—my Lilith —makes something primal rear up inside me.