Chapter 3 Serena
Serena
The restaurant Cesare chooses is exactly what I expected—expensive, exclusive, and designed for maximum privacy. Private dining room, discreet staff, the kind of place where powerful men conduct business they don’t want people to overhear.
Or where predators isolate their prey before their attack.
“You look exquisite,” Cesare says as he holds my chair. His hand brushes my bare shoulder, and it takes everything in me not to flinch. “That dress is stunning on you.”
The dress is emerald green, elegant and modest by any standard, but the way he’s looking at me makes me feel naked. His eyes trace every line, every curve, lingering in places that make me shudder inside. I have a hard time keeping the bile down, so it burns my throat as punishment.
God, I won’t last a day alone with this man without doing something unthinkable like driving a knife into his chest.
When the sommelier offers me the wine menu, I smile at her like my life depended on her presence. “Thank you.” I’m actually grateful for something to focus on besides Cesare’s empty, predatory eyes. “Shall we start with the 2015 Barolo?”
“Perfect choice.” He smiles, and I force myself to grin back. I’m sure my expression is as lifeless as his. He leans back slightly and adds, “Your father mentioned you have excellent taste.”
I’m sure my father has mentioned a lot of things when he was trying to sell me out to this man. Like the fact that I’m intelligent, well-educated, fluent in four languages, and skilled at managing Syndicate operations. All the qualities that make me a valuable asset.
Because that’s what I am to both of them. An asset to be traded.
Dinner is interminable. Cesare is charming on the surface. He’s well-spoken and attentive. He asks about my interests, my work with the family business, my thoughts on European expansion. To anyone watching, we probably look like a perfectly matched couple enjoying an intimate dinner.
But I fear what’s underneath.
The way his smile never reaches his eyes. The possessive edge in his tone when he talks about “our future together.” The calculated assessment in every question, like he’s taking inventory of what he’s purchased. And worst of all, the barely concealed anticipation when he mentions the honeymoon.
“I think you’ll enjoy Italy,” he says over the main course. “The Dellamare estate in Tuscany is quite beautiful. Remote, private. We’ll spend our honeymoon there. Just the two of us, getting to know each other intimately.”
The way he elongates the syllables of the word “intimately” makes me queasy.
“That sounds lovely,” I lie, cutting into my osso buco with more force than necessary.
“Your father and I have already discussed the living arrangements after the wedding.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand before I can pull it away.
His palm is cool and humid, his grip just a fraction too tight.
“You’ll move to my estate in Boston initially, of course.
The one in Back Bay. I’ve already had the master suite redecorated to accommodate a woman’s tastes. ”
He hasn’t asked what my tastes are, though.
“How thoughtful.” I leave my hand in his because pulling away would blow my attempt to look compliant, but every nerve ending screams at me to run. “I’m sure it’s beautiful,” I offer in a flat tone.
If Cesare has noticed my lack of enthusiasm, he ignores it as his thumb strokes my knuckles. A gesture that should be tender becomes something like a claim. I clench my teeth to keep my body’s reactions in check.
“I want you to be comfortable. Happy. You’ll want for nothing, Serena. I’ll give you everything a woman could desire.”
Except freedom. Except choice. Except for basic human dignity.
“I appreciate that, Cesare,” I mutter.
“Of course, there will be expectations. As your husband, I’ll have the right to use your body as I wish, whenever I want to.
” His grip tightens when I try to pull my hand.
My heart sinks further into my chest at the implications of his statement.
“As my wife, you’ll need to maintain certain standards.
Your appearance, your behavior, your associations.
The Dellamare name carries significant weight, and I can’t have my wife reflecting poorly on it. ”
There it is. He’s beginning to show his true colors, his real intentions.
“Naturally,” I say, still keeping my voice carefully neutral. “I understand the importance of reputation.”
“I knew you would.” He releases my hand finally, and I resist the urge to wipe it on my napkin. “You’re intelligent, Serena. That’s one of the things that attracted me to you. Intelligence can be cultivated. Shaped. And with the right guidance, you’ll learn how to pleasure me.”
The threat is barely veiled. He plans to mold me into whatever he wants me to be.
Over my dead body! I scream inside my head, while plastering another lifeless smile on my lips.
By the time dessert arrives, I’ve made my decision.
There’s no way—absolutely no way—I’m marrying this man.
I don’t care what contracts my father signed or what political consequences follow.
I will not spend the rest of my life with a man who looks at me like I’m a thing he owns because he signed a fucking piece of paper.
More importantly, I can’t be tied to a man who considers me nothing more than a fuck doll.
But I can’t simply refuse. My father won’t allow it, and defying him directly would bring consequences I’m not prepared to face. The DiLorenzo patriarchy doesn’t tolerate disobedience, especially from daughters.
So I need another option.
I need to make myself unavailable.
The idea hits me somewhere between the tiramisu and Cesare’s explicit description of how he plans to “introduce” me to his kinky needs on our wedding night.
My mind starts racing, calculating angles and possibilities.
I summon one of my greatest skills, the strategic thinking that’s kept me alive in this world.
If I’m already married, the contract with Cesare becomes void. Marriages in the Syndicate are sacred. So, an engagement contract, even if signed before a wedding, will never supersede a legal marriage. If I marry someone my father can’t simply dispose of, Cesare’s claim becomes invalid.
The question is: who?
It would have to be someone powerful enough that my father can’t just have them killed. Someone with connections and resources of their own. Someone from a founding family, preferably.
Someone from the Boyle family.
My heart starts pounding as the pieces fall into place.
The Boyles are one of the original Syndicate families, just as powerful as the DiLorenzos, maybe more so. An alliance with them would be just as valuable as one with the Dellamares, possibly more so given their East Coast dominance. My father couldn’t object on strategic grounds.
And there are three Boyle brothers in the Syndicate, because the youngest, Nick, doesn’t count. He ditched the Boyle name and legacy years ago to become a rock star. Plus, he already has a wife and a daughter.
Dave is happily married to Alexia and raising their kids.
Tommy has recently married Maeve O’Connor to strengthen ties with the Irish faction. Also unavailable.
But Shelby...
Shelby is unattached. Shelby is powerful in his own right—ex-Marine, Syndicate enforcer, co-owner of the Crimson Velvet.
Shelby is Joe’s best friend, which means there’s already a connection between our families.
And most importantly, Shelby kissed me last night like I was oxygen and he’d been drowning.
And I kissed him back because it was something I’ve been dying to do for years.
Shelby, who admitted I terrify him because he cares.
Shelby, who needs someone to trust as much as I need someone to save me.
It’s insane. It’s desperate. It’s exactly the kind of high-risk gambit that either saves everything or destroys it all.
But it might work.
The more I think about it, the more the plan crystallizes.
A fake marriage—strategic, temporary if necessary, but legal and binding.
Something my father would have to accept because undoing it would cause more problems than it solves.
Shelby would get... what? What could I possibly offer him that would make this worth his while?
Protection, maybe. An alibi for his instability, a reason to stay stateside instead of running back to foreign operations that are clearly destroying him. A partnership with someone who understands his darkness because she lives in it too.
And if there’s something more between us—something that felt real when we kissed last night—then maybe we’re both getting something we didn’t even know we needed.
“Serena?” Cesare’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You seem distracted.”
“Just thinking about everything we discussed.” I give him my best smile, the one I’ve perfected over years of playing family politics. “It’s a lot to process.”
“Of course.” He signals for the check. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere more private. I have a suite at the Four Seasons. We could go there to discuss our future.” His voice drops to a seductive whisper that makes me want to vomit.
I sink my teeth into my lower lip to keep lunch down.
Big mistake. He zeroes in on that, using his thumb to free my lip before smoothing it.
“It’s more intimate, more appropriate for what I have in mind for you. ”
Absolutely fucking not.
I know exactly what he’s thinking. His gesture, the predatory glint in his eyes, and the bulge in his pants that I can see despite the table between us telegraph his intentions.
“That’s very tempting,” I say, pulling back, out of his reach, and reaching for my clutch. “But I have an early morning meeting with my father tomorrow. Syndicate business. I should get home and prepare.”
His expression darkens slightly, which is another early crack in his charming facade. “Surely you can spare an hour.”
“I really can’t.” I unfold from the chair before he can grab my wrist again. “But thank you for a lovely dinner, Cesare. It was very enlightening.”
He stands as well and steps around the table, getting very close, invading my personal space in a way that makes every instinct scream. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
It’s not a request, so I don’t bother arguing.
We walk through the restaurant in silence, his hand at the small of my back, proprietary and possessive. Outside, the autumn air is cold, and I’m grateful for it. I can breathe again.
My driver is waiting with the town car, but Cesare stops me before I can reach it.
“Serena.” He turns me to face him, both hands on my arms now. “I want you to know how pleased I am with this arrangement. You’re everything I hoped for. Beautiful, intelligent, well-bred. You’ll make an excellent wife.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
“And I promise,” he leans in, his breath hot against my ear, “I’ll teach you everything you need to know about being a Dellamare. You’ll learn to anticipate my needs, to please me in every way. It will be my pleasure to train you.”
Train me. Like I’m a dog.
He kisses me before I can pull away. He’s demanding, forcing his tongue into my mouth. His hands grip my arms tight enough to bruise, and I taste wine and possession and threat.
When he finally releases me, I’m shaking with barely contained rage.
“Goodnight, cara mia,” he murmurs, with a satisfied smile. Obviously misreading my reaction to his assault, he runs a thumb over my lower lip. “I’ll see you soon. Very soon.”
Fighting a new wave of nausea, I get into the car without responding. The moment the door closes, and he can’t see through the tinted glass, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Home, Miss DiLorenzo?” Georgio, my driver, asks through the intercom.
“No.” I fish my phone out of my clutch and pull up Shelby’s contact. My hands are still shaking, but my resolve is iron. “Take me to Shelby Boyle’s penthouse in the Financial District.”
I type quickly: I’m on my way. We need to talk. Now.
His response is immediate: I’ll be waiting.
The drive takes twenty minutes. Twenty minutes I spend building my case, anticipating objections, constructing the argument that will either save me or destroy my chances at happiness.
Because what I’m about to propose is insane.
But it’s also my only way out.
The car pulls up to his building, and he buzzes me up before I reach the door. I raise my eyes to the heavens and send a little prayer for surveillance cameras.
When the elevator opens on his floor, he’s waiting in the doorway. He’s changed since this morning. Now, he’s wearing dark jeans, a fitted black T-shirt that shows off the body I’ve spent years admiring. The beard is trimmed now, and his hair is slightly damp, like he recently showered.
Those blue eyes track over me as he assesses my body language, evidencing his training as an enforcer. And he’s one of the best at it.
“What happened?” He pulls me inside and closes the door. “You’re not okay.”
And just like that, standing in the state-of-the-art kitchen in his penthouse with genuine concern in his eyes, I know I’m making the right choice.
Even if it’s downright reckless.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, setting my clutch down on his counter. “But first, I need to tell you something. And then I need to ask you to do something crazy for me.”
He leans against the counter, propping himself on his powerful arms, those intelligent blue eyes never leaving my face. “I’m listening.”
So I start talking.