Chapter 8 Shelby
Shelby
The flight back from Vegas is quiet in a way that feels deliberate. Serena sleeps most of the way, her head resting against the window of my private jet, her left hand positioned so the diamond catches the dim lights in the cabin. The precious stone gleams like a promise.
Or a threat. I’m still not sure which one will prevail.
I spend the flight trying not to think about what comes next.
We land at Boston Logan at six in the morning, the kind of early hour when the city is still mostly asleep, and the airport moves with minimal traffic.
My phone has been buzzing since we crossed into the EST time zone.
Each time it vibrated, I glanced at the display to find messages from Joe, from Dave, from my father.
All variations of the same question: Where the hell are you?
I haven’t answered any of them. There’s no good way to explain that I got married to Joe DiLorenzo’s little sister without prior approval or family consultation.
There’s no strategic spin that makes this look like anything other than what it is: an impulsive decision made by a man who couldn’t say no to a woman in distress.
I don’t want to make Tommy pick sides. I shouldn’t force Tommy to choose between loyalty to me and the rest of our family, so I don’t call him either.
The black town car is waiting for us at the private hangar.
I help Serena into the back seat. As she settles, I notice her gradually shift from vulnerable exhaustion to a guarded stance.
Her armor is back up. Her shoulders are straight.
The woman beside me now is the one who negotiates Syndicate politics, not the one who came undone in my arms in Vegas.
“We should tell my family first,” she says as the car pulls away from the airport. “Before the Syndicate rumor mill turns this into something worse than it is.”
“It’s going to be bad either way,” I tell her, pushing my glasses up on my nose. The nervous habit feels justified this time. “But you’re right. Joe needs to hear this from us, not through gossip.”
I find Joe’s number in my contacts and press the green button.
He answers on the second ring. “Shelby,” he says, with an edge in his voice and a question buried in that single word.
It’s early morning, and I’m calling. Joe will assume that something has happened.
“I’m back in Boston,” I say, keeping my tone level. “You and I need to meet. In private.”
There’s a pause. I can almost hear the wheels in his head grinding as he runs through scenarios. When he speaks again, his voice is carefully controlled. “Your penthouse in fifteen?”
He hangs up without waiting for confirmation. Efficient. Direct. That’s how Joe operates, which is probably why he and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. Neither of us wastes time on social niceties.
The penthouse is exactly as I left it, with its minimalist, contemporary furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows, and the city sprawled out below like a kingdom waiting to be conquered.
I pour myself a whiskey and stand at the windows, watching Boston wake up.
Serena sits on the couch, still in her traveling clothes, her hands folded in her lap like she’s preparing for an execution.
“He’s going to be angry,” she says quietly.
“Yes.”
“He might try to have you killed.”
“Possibly,” I acknowledge, because it’s true. Joe’s primary loyalty is to his sister, and marrying her without his family’s consent could be interpreted as a threat to her safety or autonomy. “But he won’t. Not if I can convince him I’m serious about this.”
“Are you?” she asks, and there’s something in her voice that suggests this is the real question she’s been asking herself since we left Vegas. “Serious about this? About us?”
I turn from the window to face her fully. She’s watching me with those amber eyes that see through all my carefully constructed defenses. Before Vegas, I promised myself this was temporary. Strategic. Something we’d unwind once the immediate threat was neutralized.
But that was a lie I told myself because the truth is that I’ve been in love with this woman for longer than I want to admit. And that scares the shit out of me.
“I told you last night that I’ve changed my mind about our arrangement. I want to make this…” I pause and wiggle an index finger between us. “I want our marriage to be real. And I meant it. I’m serious. I wouldn’t have married you otherwise.”
She nods slowly, processing my words. Before she can respond, the intercom buzzes. I check the video feed and confirm Joe is here. He’s early and wearing a tracksuit, which means he must have been training at the gym around the corner.
The elevator chimes before opening its doors.
Joe DiLorenzo walks into my penthouse, as he owns it.
At thirty-five, he carries the weight of leadership the way our generation of mafia men were raised to.
He shows the ease of someone born into power and groomed from childhood to wield it.
His black curls fall over his broad forehead as if his fingers have combed them too many times on the way here.
His black tracksuit bears the logo of a high-end Italian designer.
But it’s his thunderous expression that betrays his real feelings.
His deep-set brown eyes go straight to Serena.
He doesn’t seem surprised to find her in my apartment, which makes me wonder if Joe had sensed our feelings for each other before we were even aware of them.
He scans her face until he’s apparently satisfied that she’s physically fine.
Then, he turns to me. Even though his frown has eased slightly, the violence in his tense muscles makes my hand instinctively move toward the Glock I keep at the back of my pants.
“Explain,” he demands.
“I married your sister,” I reply, no point dancing around it. “Yesterday in Las Vegas. It was her request, and I agreed.”
Joe’s jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle working. He looks at Serena. “Is this true?”
“Yes,” she says, and her voice is steady in a way that commands respect. “I asked him to marry me, and he said yes.”
“Why?” The question is directed at me, not at her.
“Because she was trapped,” I say. “Your father signed the contract promising her to Cesare Dellamare without her consent. She asked for my help, and I gave it.”
Joe turns to Serena again. “You could have come to me. I could’ve helped you.”
“Like you did at that breakfast when Dad announced the engagement?” Her tone is more matter-of-fact than accusatory.
Still, I notice Joe swallowing hard a couple of times before adding, “You could’ve asked me to talk to Dad.”
“He wouldn’t have listened.” There’s a finality in her tone that suggests she’s already thoroughly processed this fact. “You know that. He wasn’t going to change his decision for my sake. This marriage was the only option I had left.”
Joe paces away from us, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. I watch him digest this information, run through the political implications, the family ramifications, and the personal betrayal he might feel at not being consulted.
When he turns back to face me, his expression is controlled but no less dangerous.
He pokes my sternum with an index finger as he murmurs, “If this is a play, if you’re using my sister for some political maneuvering or any reason other than genuine care for her well-being, I will cut off your dick and feed it to my dogs.
Capisce?” His use of Italian tells me all I need to know about his state of mind. He’s almost out of it.
Plus, the threat is delivered in such a flat tone that it carries more weight than any shouting could.
This is Joe at his most dangerous. I’ve seen him like this countless times.
It always reminds me why he commands respect in the Syndicate despite being younger than most of the established power players.
“I understand,” I answer in English what he has asked me in Italian.
“And just so you understand, I’m serious about Serena and this marriage.
” I switch my focus from Joe’s angry face to Serena’s lovely one.
I hold her stare as I announce, “I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I didn’t have feelings for her. ”
“Words are cheap,” Joe observes, and I snap my eyes back to him. He adds, “Actions are what really matter. And your action was marrying my sister without family approval or consent. That’s not the action of someone who respects Serena or her family.”
“You’re right. I should’ve come to you first,” I concede, because arguing the point would only make things worse. “I should’ve done this properly if the circumstances were different. But Serena needed protection, and I could provide it.”
Joe studies me for a long moment. He’s a protective older brother first, a businessman second, and a criminal third. He’s assessing whether I’m a liability or an asset, whether keeping me alive serves his interests or threatens them.
“The marriage stays,” he says finally. “It’s done.
It’s legal, and undoing it now would cause more problems than leaving it in place.
But Shelby—“ He steps closer, invading my personal space in a deliberate assertion of dominance.
“—you hurt her, you betray her, you make her regret trusting you, and I will make sure your death is slow, creative, and excruciating. Got it?”
“Crystal clear,” I say, meeting his gaze steadily. I don’t flinch. I don’t look away because I don’t have anything to hide. But also because, in our world, showing fear in front of someone like Joe is basically signing your own death warrant.
He nods once, apparently satisfied. Then he turns to Serena and pulls her into a tight hug that’s somehow both fierce and protective.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, and there’s genuine concern in his tone.
“I’m fine,” she says, and I watch her relax slightly in her brother’s embrace. “I’m more than fine, actually. I’m relieved.”
Joe pulls back and studies her face. “You’re happy about this?”
“Yes,” she says, nodding.
“Better keep your real reasons for doing this to a handful of people, not including Father.”
“Absolutely.” Serena nods.
Joe looks back at me, and something in his expression shifts. It’s not forgiveness yet, but it’s an emotion close to acceptance. “Welcome to the family, Shelby. Try not to fuck it up.”
After Joe leaves, we sit on the couch and make several strategic phone calls to members of our families and the Syndicate. Our goal is to spin our narrative the right way. We want to convince people that this marriage is real, that it is benefiting both families.
While talking to Dave and my father, I overhear Giovanni scream at my wife. My blood boils as I look at her. Serena keeps her phone away from her ear as she explains to him why she’s unavailable for the engagement to Cesare. I lace my fingers through hers in silent support.
She mouths, “Thank you,” and rolls her eyes as her father goes on for another couple of minutes.
When we finally hang up, Serena moves through the rooms of my apartment with the ease of someone who’s already spent significant time here.
But I sense an uncertainty in her movements that suggests she’s not quite sure of her place in this space yet.
It’s her space now, too. We’re married. The paperwork is filed. The ring on her finger is real.
“You should get some rest,” I tell her, watching as she stops at the window overlooking the city. “You’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours.”
“So have you,” she points out.
“I’m used to functioning on minimal sleep. Comes with the Marine training.”
She turns from the window, and in the early morning light filtering through the glass, she looks ethereal.
Beautiful and fragile and impossibly strong all at once.
The dichotomy of her is one of the things that drew me to her in the first place.
I admire the way she can be both soft and steel, vulnerable and unbreakable.
“I want to stay with you,” she says. “Not in the guest room. Really with you.”
I nod, because I want that too. I want to fall asleep with her in my arms. I want to wake up to her presence in my bed. I want to build something real, not just play a part.
“Come on,” I say, extending my hand.
The master bedroom is large, decorated in shades of gray and white. Serena falls asleep almost immediately after we lie down together, her head on my chest, her fingers splayed across my heart like she’s checking to make sure it’s still beating.
I lie awake for a long time, listening to her breathing. I think about Joe’s threat. I think about the fact that I’m now married to someone whose family could destroy me if they decided to.
But mostly, I think about the way Serena said she was happy. The way she trusted Joe to handle the family logistics while she stayed close to me. The way she chose to sleep in my bed instead of maintaining the distance we had agreed to before the wedding. Before last night.
Somewhere along the way, while pretending this marriage was strategic, I think I’ve begun to fall in love with my wife.
The thought should terrify me. By every logical measure, it does. Loving someone in my world is a liability. It gives people leverage. It creates a weakness that enemies can exploit.
But as I fall asleep with Serena’s warmth enveloping me and her trust a tangible thing in the darkness, I find I don’t particularly care about logic anymore.
I’m learning that some risks are worth taking.