CHAPTER TEN
SERAFINA
The ceiling had nothing to offer me but the same answer it had given me for the past six hours since I had been in bed: absolutely nothing.
I lay in the dark, sheets twisted around my legs like restraints I hadn’t asked for, staring at the blank expanse of plaster above the bed.
I turned my head and glanced at the small ticking clock on the nightstand.
Three in the morning. The hour when the world stopped pretending and the truth, along with the monsters, crawled out from beneath the floorboards of your mind to sit on your chest.
And my unpleasant truth was… I could still feel his hands on me.
Not metaphorically or in some poetic, tortured way. Physically.
The ghost of Adrian’s fingers lingered on my hip where he’d gripped me, possessive and certain, pulling me against him like I was something he’d already decided to keep.
The phantom weight of his palm at the base of my throat, thumb pressed against my pulse point as if measuring the rate at which my body betrayed me.
I pressed my own hand to my sternum now, feeling the traitorous rhythm beneath my ribs. Thud. It was steady and calm.
As though my heart hadn’t been so erratic before at his mere presence, his torturous touch.
Stop it.
It wasn’t attraction. It wasn’t desire. It was a tactical error, a foolish mistake… a momentary lapse in my solid judgment, and I wouldn’t let it stand.
“Damn it,” I whispered into the darkness. I hated the thought that his touch could undo me in such a traitorous way.
I had orchestrated this vengeance far too perfectly to let my body betray me like this. It wouldn’t happen again. I wouldn’t allow it.
I was better than this. I was stronger than this.
The phantom feel of fire licking over my skin, and the smell of charred flesh was enough to cauterize whatever warmth Adrian’s memory had left behind.
I had a plan. A meticulous, patient, devastating plan. My husband—the man who destroyed everything I had, who stole every bit of happiness in my life—would break.
His impending fall was inevitable.
Adrian Salvatore would die.
I was going to make sure of that.
With a frustrated sigh, I stood and crossed to the window of my hotel room, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. Darkness stretched beyond it, the streets below nearly lifeless at this late hour.
I had moved again this morning, trading one motel for another in Monaco. It was beautiful here. I loved the city, the glittering coastline, the quiet luxury… and the illusion of safety.
But I couldn’t stay.
I had already overstayed my welcome.
I knew Adrian would find me again, if he hadn’t already.
I kept moving because despite how much I hated to admit it, some twisted part of me had been enjoying the chase.
The constant movement, the pure adrenaline, and the sick knowledge that my husband was tearing through countries and every hiding place I could find just to catch a glimpse of me…
to simply watch me as he kept his distance.
But Adrian wasn’t the only reason I was running.
No… I was running because I possessed something Matteo wanted, something he needed. Something I had lied to him about.
Matteo Salvatore didn’t like liars or traitors. And I was both.
Fortunately for me, the only reason I was still breathing was because whatever I knew was worth more to him than my death. I suspected that once he got what he wanted, no amount of distance between us could keep me safe.
Maybe not even his brother could save me.
Once, I had begrudgingly partnered with him to ruin my husband. In my desperation, I had willingly stepped into Matteo’s vicious game. I thought I could use one monster to bring down another monster.
I was wrong.
It was too late when I realized Matteo was every bit as ruthless and evil as his younger brother. No… he was perhaps worse. But I had already been too deeply entangled to walk away.
I had been a fool to trust him, to play his game.
And I paid the price.
The thing was, I lied to his face, and I thought I could get away with it.
Except, men like Matteo and Adrian—there was no escaping them.
There was something almost poetic… well, ironic, about being hunted by both Salvatore brothers.
Though, for two very different reasons.
Adrian wanted answers… and revenge for what I did to him.
Matteo wanted something far more dangerous. One tiny piece of information I had kept buried.
A secret I had guarded through lies, false identities, and one effective escape after another.
And Matteo was so desperate, he was willing to burn the world down to get it.
Because only I knew where it was.
And unfortunately for me, I was the only person who could give it—her—to him.
An unfamiliar sound interrupted my thoughts.
A rustle.
I went completely still. A soft rustling noise came from the hallway. A gentle thud and the faintest creak of weight shifting on hardwood.
Someone was outside my door.
I turned slowly, every nerve in my body pulling taut. I chose the motel because it was quaint and safe; it wasn’t a place where people wandered the halls at three in the morning.
And then there was a knock.
One small, precise rap against the door.
I moved, and my hand found the gun on my nightstand before my mind could finish processing the sound. The weight was cold and familiar in my palm as I moved to the door on silent feet, pressing my back against the wall beside the frame before I took a quick peek through the peephole.
I found nobody there. The corridor was empty, lit by the dim amber lighting.
I waited and slowly counted to thirty in my head. The silence remained. There was no shadow or retreating figure, no more rustling, and not another knock.
With the gun raised in my hand, I turned the handle and pulled the door open just enough to peer outside. The hallway was lifeless, but something else caught my eyes.
On the carpet directly in front of my door, there was a rectangular package. Plain brown paper, no markings, no label, roughly the size of a shoebox.
A package for me.
A package I didn’t order.
I scanned both ends of the corridor again but found it as empty as it had been when I peeked through the peephole. Whoever had delivered this package was already gone.
I picked it up. The weight was slightly heavier than I had expected, and whatever was inside shifted with a dull thud when I tilted the box. It didn’t sound fragile or delicate. It was dense and thick.
Hmm.
I stepped back inside and closed the door, locking the deadbolt with a quiet click. I left the box on the desk and walked back to the nightstand to set down my gun, , safe but always within reach.
I folded my arms over my chest and looked back at the carefully wrapped box, curiosity burning through my veins. I wasn’t sure if I should open it or not. It could be dangerous, or…
Well, damn it. I was too curious for my own good.
Before I could question my choices, I strode back to the desk, picked up the package, and tore the brown paper away. It was a plain cardboard box. There was no tape, and the flaps were simply folded shut, easy to open.
Maybe I should have been smarter.
Unfortunately, my choices lately have been questionable.
Because I opened the box.
The smell hit me first, copper and vaguely chemical, as if it was trying to mask the rot.
And then I saw it.
A hand.
A severed hand.
Real and human.
Oh God—
I blinked in utter shock, my heart leaping to my throat, and I tasted the bitter bile of nausea on my tongue.
It was severed cleanly at the wrist, the stump still bloodied, the fingers curled slightly inward as though still reaching for something it would never grasp again.
The skin was waxy, the nails trimmed and clean. A man’s hand. Large. The pinky finger bore a silver ring I somewhat recognized but couldn’t exactly place where I remembered it from.
The hand looked fresh. Hours old, perhaps. The flesh hadn’t even begun to discolor yet.
Oh my God.
Horror coursed through my body as realization finally dawned on me.
I dropped the box. It hit the carpet with a muffled thump, and the hand slid free, landing on the rug, fingers splayed open in grotesque invitation.
A thin smear of dark blood trailed from the severed wrist.
My stomach churned violently, and I swallowed back the urge to retch.
It wasn’t from the evidence of this perceived violence… I had seen worse, after all. But from the intentionality of it.
This wasn’t an accident or collateral damage.
It was a cold, calculated message, carefully delivered to my door in the dead of night by someone who knew exactly which room was mine.
And I knew only one person who had that information.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
The voice came from behind me, low and unhurried, and every muscle in my body locked into place.
I knew that voice the way I knew my own heartbeat—the dark, ruthless cadence of it, the way it dropped to a near-whisper at the edges of certain words, the quiet controlled tone that proved he was always composed.
I turned.
And finally came face to face with my dear husband.
I wasn’t trapped between a wall and his body this time.
Adrian stood in the middle of the room, hands in the pockets of his pants, so nonchalantly, like he owned every space of it.
My fists clenched at my sides.
“Serafina,” he drawled, his tongue rolling over every syllable as if he were tasting my name.
I peeked over my shoulder at the door I had locked, and it remained locked.
The windows behind him were also closed, and yet, somehow, Adrian was in my room.
“How did you get in this room?” I asked quietly, my voice steady despite everything else I was feeling.
Adrian simply shrugged a shoulder, his lips twitching in that arrogant way I despised so much. “I was always here. I’m actually a little offended you didn’t realize that sooner.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Almost like he could hear my confusion, a low chuckle escaped him. He jerked his head to the side, motioning toward the bed.
My brow furrowed. Huh?
“Under the bed, wife.”