Chapter 4 Shelby
Shelby
Serena DiLorenzo stands in my kitchen, and she looks like she’s been to war.
The emerald dress is elegant, her makeup is flawless, her hair is still perfectly styled. But I see past the armor she’s wearing, the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands aren’t quite steady. Most of all, the carefully controlled fury in her eyes betrays her real state of mind.
Someone hurt her.
Every protective instinct I have roars to life—the same instincts that got me through Syria and Russia despite my freezing. The instincts that say: defend, protect, eliminate the threat.
“I’ll be fine,” she says, but we both know it’s a lie. She sets her clutch down on the marble countertop with more force than necessary. “But first, I need to tell you something. And then I need to ask you to do something crazy for me.”
I lean against the counter, grabbing its edge until my knuckles turn white, trying to look calm. The truth is, I’m already running through scenarios in my head. Who hurt her? How badly? What’s the surest way to make them suffer before I disappear with them?
Despite my murderous thoughts, I state in a neutral tone, “I’m listening.”
She takes a breath, and I watch her gather herself. Serena is one of the strongest people I know. She’d have to be, growing up as Giovanni DiLorenzo’s daughter. Right now, she looks like she’s barely holding it together. This sight is like a sucker-punch to my stomach.
“This morning, my father announced my engagement,” she starts. “To Cesare Dellamare.”
The name means nothing to me at the moment, but I file it away. That accounts for the urgency in the text she received this morning.
“I’m guessing you didn’t know about this beforehand,” I murmur.
“I found out at breakfast. The contracts are already signed. The wedding is in three months.” Her voice is steady, but the fury underneath seeps through her words. “I just spent three endless hours at dinner with him. With my future husband.”
The way she says “future husband” is laced with venom.
I nudge her. “Tell me about him.”
And she does.
She tells me about Cesare Dellamare, his place in the Italian underworld, his rise to power, and his connection to her family’s operations in Europe.
She tells me about dinner, about the way he looked at her, the things he said.
The plans he has for their marriage, for training her, molding her, controlling every aspect of her life.
With every word out of her mouth, my jaw gets tighter.
She tells me about the kiss, how he forced her into it, how possessively he claimed her. All the while, I eye the purplish red marks staining the soft skin of her arms. I know that’s where he gripped her.
The motherfucker squeezed her too hard.
A muscle ticks in my cheek, and I fear my teeth will crack under the pressure I’m exerting to keep calm.
By the time she’s done, I’ve listed about a hundred different ways I could kill Cesare Dellamare. Some quick, but excruciatingly painful. Most wouldn’t be fast, yet just equally agonizing.
“He kissed you,” I repeat her words as if I need confirmation, my voice coming out flat, dangerous. “Without permission.”
“Yes.”
Still double-checking that I’ve heard her right, I add, “You wanted him to?”
“God, no,” she counters without hesitation, her disgust crystal clear on her twisted features.
Her denial sets something fierce flashing through me.
It’s a primal possessiveness that I have no right to feel.
I’ve known Serena all her life. But she’s always been my friend Joe’s little sister.
That alone makes her off-limits in every way that matters.
And that fact has made me put on blinders, as Serena became a gorgeous woman impossible to ignore.
Over the years, I’ve hidden my own feelings for her even from myself. But right now, all I can think about is that Cesare Dellamare is a dead man walking.
“Where does he live?” I growl.
“Shelby—“
“I’m serious, Serena. Give me an address, and he disappears. Tonight. I’ll make it clean, no blowback on your family.”
I catch a glint of satisfaction in her eyes before she shakes her head. My offer tempts her.
“That’s not why I’m here,” she says softly. “If you kill him, my father will just find another Cesare. Another powerful man to sell me to. This isn’t about one predator. It’s about the system.”
She’s right, I know that much. But it doesn’t make me want to kill Cesare any less.
“Then what do you want to do? You mentioned something crazy.”
She takes a breath, steadying herself. This is it. Whatever she came here to ask, this is the moment she reveals it.
“I want you to marry me,” she breathes out the words so softly I have trouble hearing them.
Her request hangs in the air between us.
On second thought, I must have misheard her. There’s no way Serena DiLorenzo just walked into my penthouse and proposed to me.
I murmur, “What did you just say?”
“Marry me.” She steps closer, and her warmth envelops me.
As I scan her expression, I see clearly the desperation in her eyes.
It’s the natural reaction of someone who’s trapped with no way out.
Apparently, taking my silence for hesitation, she blurts out, “Not for real, though. Don’t worry.
It wouldn’t be real in any way that matters emotionally.
I’m proposing a strategic marriage. A fake marriage, if that makes it easier.
But legal, binding, something my father can’t undo. ”
My mind is racing, trying to process what she’s asking and find a reasonable way to convince her this is a terrible idea.
“Serena—“
“If I’m already married, the contract with Cesare is void,” she continues, her words coming faster now.
“Engagement contracts can’t supersede an existing legal marriage.
And if I’m married to a Boyle, my father strengthens our ties to another founding family.
That is an even better alliance than the Dellamares could offer. ”
“You want to marry me to escape an arranged marriage.” I keep my voice flat, carefully controlled. “That’s your plan?”
“Yes.”
“And what happens after? When your father realizes what you’ve done?”
“He’ll be angry,” she admits. “But he’s pragmatic. If I present it as a done deal, if we’re already married, he’ll have to accept it. Because if he doesn’t, it’ll be public humiliation for him, which would weaken his position in the Syndicate.”
I run a hand through my hair, trying to think past the immediate protective fury and actually analyze what she’s proposing.
Shaking my head, I state the obvious, “This is insane.”
“I know.”
“Your father could have me killed.”
“Not without starting a war with the Boyles. Jack and Dave would retaliate, and my father knows it.”
“Joe—“
“Joe will understand,” she cuts me off, with hope in her voice.
But I hear the uncertainty underneath. After all, she knows her brother as well, or better than I do. Joe is not the forgiving type.
When I raise a skeptical eyebrow at her comment, she shrugs and adds, “He’s your best friend. He knows you wouldn’t hurt me.”
Even though I understand and sympathize with her difficult situation, I have to bring her back to reality. Her plan will never work, and we will both end up regretting it.
“I’m not that sure I won’t hurt you.” The words come out harsher than I intend. “I’m not exactly stable right now, Serena. I’ve told you what happened in Russia. I’m broken. I can’t save the people who need saving. What makes you think I won’t destroy you too?”
It’s the truth, the ugly, brutal truth that’s been eating at me since Syria. Hell, way before that. It’s been killing me since that incident with the translator in Afghanistan, since every mission that went sideways and left bodies in its wake.
I’m damaged goods. I’m a liability. And Serena DiLorenzo deserves better than a broken Marine who can’t even trust himself.
But when I challenge her faith in me, she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t back away.
Instead, she closes the distance between us, frames my face in her hands, looking up into my eyes with an intensity that warms my chest. Heat spreads through me as I hold her whiskey-colored stare.
“I know you won’t hurt me because you’re asking that question,” she says quietly.
“Cesare doesn’t care if he destroys me. He plans to do just that.
But you,” she continues, rubbing her thumbs over my cheekbones.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, basking in the sensation.
When I meet her gaze again, she murmurs, “You, Shelby Boyle, care enough to worry about it. That’s all I need to know. ”
Her words hit me like a ten-ton truck barreling down a slippery road.
She’s right. I do care. I care more about her than I should, and it terrifies me that she’s noticed. I care more than is safe, more than is smart, more than I have any right to.
“This is a terrible idea,” I finally say, but even I can hear that my resistance is weakening.
“Probably.” The slow smile curving her full lips tells me she heard it too.
I’m so fucked up right now.
“We don’t know it’d work,” I retort, hanging on to those words for dear life. I’m free-falling into the abyss and, strangely, I’m not as afraid as I should.
“We know that it might.” She pulls my face toward hers, brushing her lips against mine.
It’s the lightest touch, but enough to set my soul on fire. My hands come up automatically, covering hers against my face, holding them there. Her skin is soft. She’s so warm. So fucking real.
“What if that’s not good enough?” I offer against her mouth.
“We’re both trapped in lives we didn’t choose. I’m drowning in a family that uses me as a disposable pawn.” She pauses for a heartbeat as her eyes grow darker. She continues, “But when you kissed me last night, it felt like the first real choice I’ve made in years.”