Chapter 6 Serena
Serena
I stand in the shower long after the water runs cold, watching Boston’s skyline blur through the steam-fogged glass. My penthouse bathroom—all marble and chrome and expensive emptiness—feels like a cage tonight. Or maybe a confessional.
What have I done?
The question circles through my mind like a vulture, patient and persistent.
I asked Shelby Boyle to marry me. Not in some distant, theoretical future where I’d have time to prepare myself and build proper defenses.
I asked him to fly to Vegas with me. Tomorrow.
To make this fake arrangement real before my father can force me into Cesare Dellamare’s cold, dead hands.
I press my forehead against the cool tile and force myself to breathe when the butterflies go bat-shit crazy inside my belly.
Strategic. I remind myself. The word has become a mantra since Shelby said yes this morning. This move is strategic. Nothing more.
The water shuts off automatically—some energy-efficient feature I never bothered to disable—and the sudden silence feels accusatory. I grab a towel and wrap it around myself, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I don’t want to see what my eyes might reveal.
My phone buzzes on the marble counter. Isabella’s name flashes across the screen with a text that makes my stomach tighten: I’m outside your door. Let me in before I use my key.
Of course she is. My sister has a sixth sense for when I’m spiraling, which means she probably felt the disturbance in the force the moment I walked into Shelby’s penthouse last night.
I consider ignoring her. I consider a lot of things in the thirty seconds it takes me to pull on silk pajamas and pad barefoot across the cold hardwood to my front door.
Isabella stands in the hallway wearing yoga pants and an oversized MIT sweatshirt, with her blonde hair piled on top of her head. She wears an expression I know too well: the one that says she’s prepared to lay siege until I surrender.
“I’m fine,” I say before she can speak.
“Liar.” My sister pushes past me into the apartment, heading straight for my kitchen.
“You texted me last night saying you needed to talk, then went radio silent. That’s your tell, Serena.
You do something impulsive and terrifying, then you lock yourself away to convince yourself it was purely strategic. ”
I close the door and follow her through the expansive living room as she makes a beeline to the bar. I watch her efficiently uncork a fine Barolo I keep for emergencies.
“I don’t have a tell,” I mutter.
“Everyone has a tell.” She pours two generous glasses of the red wine and slides one across the marble island toward me. “Yours is radio silence followed by excessive rationalization. So. What did you do?”
I plop down on a stool and wrap my fingers around the wine glass. I lift it, swirling the wine, watching the liquid slosh around. The weight of the crystal glass grounds me.
When I’m sure my voice won’t falter, I give my sister the answer she’s after. “I asked Shelby Boyle to marry me.”
Isabella’s hand freezes halfway to her mouth. Eyebrows raised to her hairline, she squeals, “You what?”
“Vegas. Tomorrow. Fake marriage to nullify Father’s arrangement with Cesare.” The words come out flat, rehearsed. I’ve been practicing this explanation in my head since I left Shelby’s penthouse this morning.
My sister sets down her glass very carefully. “Okay. Back paddle just a bit. Start from the beginning.”
So I do. I tell her about the dinner, about Cesare’s cold stare and the way my skin crawled when he touched me.
I tell her about the plan that emerged in my mind.
It’s desperate and half-formed but somehow right.
I tell her about going to Shelby, about the way he listened without judgment, about how he agreed despite having every reason to refuse.
I don’t tell her about the moment our eyes met across his living room, or the way my pulse jumped when his voice dropped low and rough. I don’t tell her about the heat that coiled in my stomach when he stepped closer, or how part of me wanted him to close that final distance between us.
Those details are mine. Private. Totally dangerous. Breathtakingly wicked.
When I finish, Isabella is quiet for a long moment. She studies me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. “So this is purely strategic?”
“Of course it is.”
“Nothing to do with the fact that you’ve been half in love with Shelby Boyle since we were teenagers?”
The wine glass slips in my fingers. I catch it before it falls, but the damage is done—she sees the crack in my armor. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Isabella leans forward, her expression softening.
“Serena, I’ve watched you at Syndicate events for years.
I’ve seen the way you track him across rooms. The way you light up when Joe mentions his name.
The way you went completely still that night in San Francisco when you heard he’d been injured in Russia. ”
“He’s my brother’s best friend. Of course, I worried.“
“Don’t.” Her voice cuts through my protest like a blade. “Don’t do that thing where you minimize your own feelings until they’re small enough that you can ignore them. I know that trick. I invented that trick.”
I drain half my wine in one swallow, needing the burn. “Even if I did feel something, which I’m not admitting, it would be irrelevant. This arrangement is temporary. Once we’ve dealt with the Cesare situation, we’ll quietly separate.”
“Will you?”
“Of course we will. Why wouldn’t we?”
Isabella gives me a look that suggests I’m being deliberately obtuse.
“Because maybe, just maybe, this fake marriage might become something real. Because I also saw the way he looked at you at Tommy’s wedding.
Because Joe has mentioned more than once that Shelby asks about you.
Because sometimes the strategic choice and the right choice are the same thing. ”
My chest tightens. “You’re romanticizing this.”
“I’m being realistic.” She reaches across the island and covers my hand with hers. “You felt something with Shelby. I can see it in your eyes. You wouldn’t be this rattled if it were purely business.”
Feeling is weakness.
The thought surfaces automatically, a defense mechanism worn smooth by years of use. But even as I think it, I know Isabella sees through me. She always has.
“I’m not weak,” I say quietly.
“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” Her grip tightens on my hand. “You’re not weak. But you’re human. And humans feel, which is not weakness. It’s just being alive.”
I pull my hand away and walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
Boston glitters below us, all lights and shadows and secrets.
Somewhere out there, Shelby is in his own penthouse, probably having a similar conversation with one of his brothers.
The thought makes my heart flutter in a way I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
“You want to know what scares me?” I press my palm against the cool glass. “It’s not that Shelby might try to control me. I know how to fight control. I know how to protect myself from men who see me as a tool or a possession.”
“Then what scares you?”
I close my eyes. “That he won’t. That he’ll show me respect and honesty and vulnerability, exactly like he did the other night.
That he’ll make me feel like I could trust him, like I could let my guard down, like I could be something other than a pawn in this game.
” I open my eyes and stare at my reflection in the dark glass.
“And then, when I’ve convinced myself it’s safe, he’ll prove me wrong. Because men always do.”
Silence fills the apartment. Isabella doesn’t rush to fill it. She just lets my words hang in the air between us, heavy with truth.
Finally, she speaks. “You’re thinking about Marco.”
The name hits like a physical blow. I haven’t spoken it aloud in three years.
“Marco was our cousin,” I say softly. “Family. Someone I was supposed to be able to trust.”
“I remember.”
Of course she does. Isabella was there for the aftermath, when I had to systematically dismantle Marco’s reputation and position to protect my own. When I had to prove to Father and the entire Syndicate that I was stronger and more ruthless than Marco, who’d tried to replace me.
“I told him things.” My reflection stares back at me, pale and haunted. “About my plans for our operations. About the deals I was negotiating. About my vision for the family’s future. He was my advisor, my confidant. I trusted him completely.”
“And he used that information against you.”
“He positioned himself as my superior. Went to Father behind my back and suggested I was too emotional, too soft, too female to handle the responsibility I’d been given.” My hands curl into fists against the glass. “He took every vulnerability I’d shared and weaponized it.”
“But you destroyed him.”
“I had to.” The memory still tastes bitter. “I had to prove I was harder and colder and more calculating than anyone ever gave me credit for. I had to show Father, and everyone else, that trusting me was Marco’s mistake, not mine.”
Isabella moves to stand beside me at the window. “And you’ve been building walls ever since.”
I nod, unable to speak around the tightness in my throat.
“Serena.” She touches my shoulder gently.
“You’re building those walls to protect yourself from being hurt.
I understand that. But walls also keep out love and connection.
They keep out everything that makes life worth living.
” She pauses. “Be careful you don’t build them so high that even Shelby can’t reach you. ”
Shelby can’t reach you.
The words echo in my mind as I stare out at Boston’s glittering skyline. The problem is, Shelby Boyle has already reached me. That’s what terrifies me most.
This morning, he looked at me with those gorgeous blue eyes and agreed to my insane plan without demanding anything in return. His gesture made something crack inside my carefully constructed armor. A hairline fracture, small but significant. Dangerous.
“I can’t afford to let him get close to me,” I whisper. “Not really.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s too powerful. Too controlled. Too willing to use anything for advantage.” I list the reasons like a litany, trying to convince myself. “And even if he’s different than other men, even if he’s honorable the way Joe says he is...” I hesitate to put my fears into words.
My sister doesn’t let me off the hook. “What?”
I turn to face Isabella. “I’m marrying Shelby to escape Father’s trap. Once this threat is over, Shelby will walk away. Why wouldn’t he?”
“Maybe because he might want to stay.”
I shake my head. “Why would he? Why would any man choose to stay with a woman who comes with a father like Giovanni DiLorenzo attached? A woman who—“
“Stop.” Isabella grabs my shoulders. “Listen to yourself. You’re writing the ending before the story even begins. You’re so convinced everyone will betray you that you’re building in the betrayal before it happens.”
“It’s called being realistic.”
“It’s called being afraid.” Her voice softens.
“And I get it. After Marco, after everything you’ve had to survive in this family, I understand why trust feels impossible.
But Serena, if you go into this marriage with your walls already built, if you refuse to even consider the possibility that Shelby might be different, then you’re guaranteeing this ends exactly the way you fear it will. ”
Her words land with uncomfortable accuracy. I pull away and refill my wine glass, needing something to do with my hands.
“You think I should trust him.” It’s not a question.
“I think you should give him a chance to prove himself trustworthy. There’s a difference.
” Isabella leans against the island, watching me carefully.
“You don’t have to trust him immediately.
You don’t have to tear down all your walls overnight.
But maybe... maybe you could leave a door ajar, you know?
Just one. And see if he’s gentleman enough to knock before entering. ”
I sip my wine, considering. The logical part of my brain screams that this is dangerous. That vulnerability equals destruction. That the smart move is to keep Shelby at arm’s length emotionally while using him strategically.
But there’s another part of me, smaller and quieter and far more dangerous, that whispers: what if.
What if Isabella is right? What if Shelby Boyle really is different? What if I could let him in, just a little, without destroying myself in the process?
The thought terrifies me more than any threat my father has ever made.
“I should go to bed,” I say abruptly, setting down my glass. “We leave for Vegas in the morning.”
Isabella studies me for a long moment, then nods. She gathers her purse, but pauses at the door. “Serena?”
“Yes?”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re making the right choice. Not the easy choice. Not the safe choice. But the right one.” She smiles sadly. “Sometimes those are the same thing.”
After she leaves, I lock the door, suddenly exhausted. I slowly stroll through the apartment, turning off lights, checking locks, and performing my nightly security ritual. The place feels too large and too empty tonight.
In my bedroom, I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my mind churning.
Tomorrow I’ll marry Shelby Boyle in a Vegas chapel. I’ll bind myself to a man who makes me feel things I’ve spent years learning not to trust. I’ll step into a situation that could either free me from my father’s control or give Shelby Boyle leverage over every aspect of my life.
The smart move would be to protect myself. To keep him at a distance. To remember that this arrangement has an expiration date.
The smart move would be to rebuild my walls higher and stronger than ever before.
I close my eyes and make a decision.
Tomorrow, when I see Shelby Boyle, I’ll be polished and professional. Controlled. I’ll wear my best armor, the one that exudes confidence and hides steel underneath. I’ll be charming.
I’ll show him exactly what he’s getting: a DiLorenzo who knows how to play the game. An asset, not a liability. A partner, not an emotional wreck.
I’ll protect myself the way I’ve learned to protect myself from everyone else who’s tried to get too close.
Even if that small, quiet, and dangerous part of me wishes I could be brave enough to do the opposite.
I can’t afford to let Shelby Boyle close to me. Not really.
The thought loops through my mind as I finally drift toward sleep. Tomorrow I’ll marry him. But I won’t let him matter.
That’s the lie I tell myself in the dark.
And like all the best lies, it almost rings true.