Chapter 2 Serena
Serena
I wake up with my cheek pressed against Shelby Boyle’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
For a moment—one beautiful, suspended moment—I let myself pretend this is normal.
That I’m the kind of woman who can fall asleep in a man’s arms without calculating the political ramifications.
That he’s the kind of man who doesn’t carry ghosts in his eyes.
That we’re just two people who want each other, uncomplicated and free.
Then reality reasserts itself, the way it always does.
I’m Serena DiLorenzo, daughter of one of the most powerful men in the Syndicate. Shelby Boyle is a trained killer with a serious case of PTSD and a death wish. And last night, we crossed a line we can never uncross.
I should regret it.
I don’t.
Shelby shifts beneath me, and the slight tension in his muscles, the change in his breathing, tell me he’s awake. His arm tightens around me briefly before he seems to catch himself.
“Morning,” he says, his voice rough.
I lift my head to look at him. God, he’s gorgeous!
Dark hair mussed from sleep, curling slightly at the ends in a way I’ve never seen when he’s in full Syndicate mode.
His intense blue eyes, the same shade as his father’s, see too much.
But while Jack’s stare has been mellowed by his losses, Shelby’s carries ghosts.
Pain and guilt and something fierce that he tries to hide behind military discipline and tactical thinking.
The overgrown beard hides the sharp cut of his jaw and frames lips that kissed me last night with a desperation that matched my own.
He’s all lean muscle and controlled power—broad shoulders, defined arms, the edge of a tattoo peeking out from under his T-shirt sleeve.
The kind of body earned through years of Marine training, not hours in a gym.
The bandage on his left shoulder is a stark white against his skin, a reminder of how close I came to losing him before I ever had him.
In the early morning light filtering through the windows, he looks younger somehow. Less haunted.
He’s beautiful and broken and dangerous, and I want him in ways that have nothing to do with strategy or survival.
“Morning.” I sit up, immediately missing his warmth. My dress is wrinkled, my carefully styled hair is a disaster, and I’m still wearing last night’s makeup. “What time is it?”
He checks his phone on the coffee table. “Just past seven.”
Which means I need to leave. Now. Before I do something inane like fucking Shelby Boyle, my brother’s best friend.
But as I reach for my coat, my own phone buzzes in my clutch. I fish it out and see three missed calls from my father and a text message that makes my blood run cold.
Father: Family breakfast. 8 AM. Do not be late.
“Shit,” I breathe.
“What’s wrong?”
I show him the message. Shelby’s expression darkens as he reads it.
“Family breakfast” is code. My father doesn’t summon us unless he’s making an announcement or issuing orders. Neither option is ever good for me.
“I have to go,” I say, standing and smoothing my dress futilely. “I need to go home, change, and—“
“Serena.” Shelby catches my hand. “Whatever this is, be careful.”
I look down at our joined hands, his rough and scarred, mine smaller and softer. “I’m always careful.”
“I mean it.” His blue eyes are intense, worried. “Your father doesn’t do family breakfasts unless something big is happening.”
“I know.” I squeeze his hand once, then pull away. “I’ll text you after.”
He walks me to the door, and for a moment we just stand there, the weight of what we’ve done pressing down on us both.
“About last night—“ he starts.
“Don’t.” I cut him off, not unkindly. “Don’t analyze it or apologize for it or try to take it back. What happened, happened. We’ll deal with the consequences later.”
He studies my face for a long moment, then nods. “Be safe, Serena.”
“You too.”
I leave before I change my mind.
The DiLorenzo estate, with its sprawling mansion, sits in Brookline.
I make it there with just enough time to shower in my old room, change into a navy blue, modest dress, the kind my father approves of.
As I fix my makeup, my reflection in the mirror shows no trace of last night.
Perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect daughter of the Syndicate.
The mask is flawless. As always.
Isabella catches me in the hallway as I’m heading down to breakfast. My younger sister is twenty-two and still in college, studying international business because Father demanded it. Unlike me, she’s never learned to hide her emotions properly.
“Where were you last night?” she hisses, grabbing my arm. “Father was calling you around eleven.”
My stomach drops. He didn’t leave a message.
“What did you tell him?”
“That you were probably at the library working on Syndicate business.” Her dark eyes search my face. “You weren’t at the library, were you?”
“No.”
“Serena—“
“Not now, Bella.” I pull free gently. “I promise we’ll talk later. What’s the breakfast about?”
Her expression shifts from concern to something akin to pity. “I don’t know. But Joe is already down there, and Father is wearing his I’m-about-to-ruin-someone’s-life face.”
Wonderful.
As we descend the grand staircase together, I can already hear voices from the formal dining room. My father’s deep baritone, my brother Joe’s measured responses. There’s another voice I don’t recognize.
We enter the dining room, and the scene before me is carefully orchestrated.
My father, Giovanni DiLorenzo, sits at the head of the table in a gray suit that costs more than a mid-size car.
At sixty-three, he’s still powerfully built, his silver hair immaculately styled, his green eyes sharp and calculating.
Joe sits to his right, already in a suit despite the early hour. My older brother catches my eye and gives me the slightest shake of his head—a warning.
And on Father’s left sits a man I’ve only met once before.
Cesare Dellamare.
He’s handsome in that classical Italian way—dark hair slicked back, strong features, high-end suit. Thirty-five, if I remember correctly, and rising quickly through the Italian faction of the Syndicate. On the surface, he’s perfect.
But his eyes are wrong.
They’re dark brown, almost black, and completely empty. Like looking into a void. When he smiles at me, as he is smiling now, it doesn’t reach his expressionless eyes. There’s something predatory in the way he looks at me, the way a cat might look at a mouse it’s about to play with.
Every instinct I have screams danger.
“Serena, Isabella.” My father gestures to the empty seats. “Please, join us. We have much to discuss.”
I take my seat across from Cesare, keeping my expression neutral even as my heart rate picks up. Isabella sits beside me, and I feel her tension matching my own.
“Good morning, Father,” I greet him.
With a wide smile, I accept the cup of coffee from Mathilda, one of the kitchen hands. I desperately need something to do with my hands.
Father clears his throat. “I’ve asked you all here this morning because I have wonderful news. Serena, I believe you remember Cesare Dellamare?”
“Mr. Dellamare.” I meet Cesare’s gaze directly, refusing to be the first to look away. “I believe we met at the Syndicate gala last year.”
“Please, call me Cesare.” His voice is smooth, cultured, with just a hint of an Italian accent. “And may I say, you look absolutely stunning this morning, Serena.”
The compliment makes my skin crawl. I incline my head politely and say nothing.
“Cesare’s family has been invaluable to our operations,” Father continues, and I can hear the underlying message in his tone.
This is business. This is strategy. This is not negotiable.
“The Dellamares control significant territory in northern Italy, and their influence in Europe is growing rapidly. A closer alliance between our families would benefit everyone.”
No. No, no, no.
I know where this is going. I’ve known since I walked into the room and saw Cesare sitting at my father’s left hand like an honored guest.
“Over the past few months, Cesare and I have been discussing such an alliance.” Father picks up his espresso cup with steady hands. “And we’ve come to an agreement that will strengthen both our families considerably.”
Joe shifts in his seat, and when I glance at him, his expression is carefully blank. But I know my brother. His teeth are clenched, setting his jaw in a tense angle, his fingers are white-knuckled as he holds the silver fork with enough force to snap it into pieces.
He doesn’t like this either.
But he’s not going to stop it.
“Serena,” Father says, and his voice has taken on that particular tone that means he’s about to issue a decree dressed up as a request. “Cesare has asked for your hand in marriage, and I have accepted on your behalf. The engagement is finalized. The wedding will take place in three months.”
The room tilts.
I’m good at controlling my reactions. I’ve been trained since childhood to never show weakness, never show fear, never show anything my father might use against me. But for a precious moment the carefully-crafted mask slips.
“Father—“
“This is not a discussion.” His voice hardens. “The contracts have been signed. The alliance is sealed. You will marry Cesare and unite our families. This is your duty to the DiLorenzo name.”
Across the table, Cesare is still smiling. The triumph in his expression now makes my blood boil.
“I understand duty, Father.” I force my voice to remain level. “But surely—“
“There is no ‘surely.’” He sets down his cup with a sharp click.
“You are twenty-five years old. It’s past time you were married.
Cesare is an excellent match—powerful, wealthy, connected.
Not entirely ugly.” My father and my unexpected fiancé exchange a look that makes my stomach churn.
Dad holds my gaze as he goes on, “Most women would kill to be in your place. You should be grateful.”
Grateful. He wants me to be grateful for being sold like livestock. These fictional women can have my place any time of the day.
Obviously, I can’t say anything remotely revealing of my real feelings about this dumpster fire situation. I take a few deep breaths to control my rage.
After swallowing all the cuss words popping up in my head, I carefully reply, “Can I ask what prompted this particular alliance? Why now?”
Something dark and sad flickers in Father’s eyes. Guilt, perhaps? Fatherly concern for a daughter’s bleak future?
He quickly smothers whatever emotion sparked in his soul before answering, “The Dellamare family holds certain... assets... that are valuable to our operations. This marriage secures our access to those assets, strengthening our position in Europe.”
Assets. He’s talking about assets.
Not my happiness. Not my life. Not even the strategic benefit to me.
Just assets.
“I see.” I look at Cesare again, really look at him. He’s watching me like he knows exactly how this is going to play out. “And what does Cesare gain from this arrangement?”
“Besides a beautiful wife?” Cesare’s smile widens. “The DiLorenzo name carries significant weight in the Syndicate, particularly on the East Coast. An alliance with your family opens doors that have been closed to the Dellamares. And of course, your father has offered a considerable dowry.”
A dowry. Like we’re living in the fucking seventeenth century.
“How generous of him,” I murmur.
“Serena.” Joe speaks for the first time, with an unmistakable warning in his tone. “Father has made his decision.”
Joe means to say, Don’t fight this. You’ll lose.
With one look at my brother, the one person in this family I thought would have my back, I read the resignation in his expression. He’s not going to help me. He’s going to let Father marry me off to this predator with snake eyes and a smile like a knife.
“Of course,” I say finally. I pick up my coffee cup, noting that my hands are shaking slightly. I force them to stillness. I don’t hide the snide in my voice as I ask,”When do Cesare and I have the pleasure of getting to know each other better?”
“Tonight,” Father says immediately. “Cesare will take you to dinner. You’ll begin the courting process publicly. The Syndicate needs to see this alliance forming naturally.”
Naturally. As if anything about this is natural.
“Tonight would be lovely,” Cesare says smoothly. “I know an excellent restaurant in the North End. Very private, very romantic.”
The way he says “private” makes the cold sliver down my spine.
“I look forward to it,” I lie.
The rest of breakfast passes in a blur. I eat because it’s expected, smile when it’s required, and play the role of dutiful daughter with practiced ease. But inside, my mind is racing.
Three months. I have three months before I’m legally bound to a man who looks at me like I’m prey.
Three months to find a way out of this trap.
When breakfast finally ends, I escape to the gardens. I need air, space, somewhere to think without my father’s cold smile or Cesare’s empty stare following my every move.
Isabella finds me twenty minutes later, sitting on the stone bench near Mother’s rose garden. Mother died five years ago, and the roses are the only thing Father maintains in her memory. Even he’s not heartless enough to let them die.
“I’m so sorry,” Isabella says, plopping herself beside me.
“Don’t be.” I keep my voice steady. “You couldn’t have done anything.”
“Joe should’ve done something.”
“Joe knows better than to cross Father when his mind is made up.” I turn to look at her, my brilliant, naive little sister. “And so do I.”
“So you’re just going to marry a stranger? That man with the creepy eyes and the creepier smile?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Isabella’s eyes widen. “Serena, what are you planning?”
“Nothing.” I breathe, standing and smoothing my dress. “Yet,” I add, pacing in front of the bench, as my thoughts whirl inside my head. “I have three months to figure something out. And I’m very good at strategy.”
I keep moving because being still isn’t an option for my agitated mind right now. I take in the manicured grounds of my father’s estate. Somewhere out there, he is celebrating his successful negotiation. Cesare is probably planning our wedding night.
And I must plan an escape from this shitty mess.
Because Serena DiLorenzo won’t take a trap lying down.
Either I find a way out, or I burn the whole thing down trying.