Chapter 9 - Serena
Serena
Dad’s summons arrives via text later that morning: Lunch at my house. Noon. Don’t be late.
I knew a phone call wouldn’t be enough. He wants to discuss my marriage to Shelby face-to-face, somewhere he can control the environment and the narrative. Where he can remind me, without words, exactly how much power he holds over my life.
I consider ignoring it.
I consider calling Shelby at his office and asking him to go with me.
But ignoring Giovanni DiLorenzo has consequences that could land on everyone I care about.
And using Shelby as a human shield would weaken me in my father’s eyes. My current position is already fragile enough.
So at 11:45, I pull through the gates of the DiLorenzo estate, my stomach in knots with dread.
The dining room is arranged with deliberate formality: white linens dress the table, silver cutlery frames the porcelain plates, and crystal glasses catch the soft glow of the ancient chandelier above.
At the head of the table, in a charcoal suit, my father swirls a glass of whiskey.
The tight line of his shoulders contrasts with the casual-looking way he leans against the chair.
And his chiseled features exude power and severity.
His sixty-three years haven’t diminished his good looks.
Joe’s inherited Father’s square jaw and tall frame.
“Serena.” He gestures to the seat on his right. “You look well.”
I take the seat without responding. A piping-hot slice of lasagna awaits. It’s my favorite dish, as Dad knows quite well, which means he’s either in an excellent mood or he’s setting a trap. I would bet serious money on alternative ‘B’.
“This wedding was quite sudden,” he says, as if we’re discussing the weather instead of my life. “Shelby Boyle is a capable man, certainly. But this move was too impulsive. Driven by emotion rather than logic.”
“Emotions drive people in love,” I reply, keeping my voice level and spinning the narrative that my Vegas wedding was born of an impulse dictated by love.
I pause and chew on a buttery morsel, watching my father.
He’s the best poker player, so I get nothing.
I swallow and add another piece of the story my husband and I have come up with, “Shelby and I have been secretly dating for a while. We were going to make it official soon. But you forced our hand by announcing your plans for me and Cesare.”
Father’s raised eyebrow isn’t a reassuring sign. “Is that so? You and Shelby? Under my nose? You positive about that?”
Shit, I scream inside my head. How did I forget my dad’s paranoid tendencies? He’s undoubtedly been tracking me behind my back. I bet my bodyguards report to him before they talk to me.
I lift my chin, holding his probing stare. “Anyway, our marriage contract is binding.”
“Contracts can be annulled, Serena.” Father sets down his untouched glass with more force than necessary. “Particularly those signed under dubious circumstances. For instance, when the bride was acting under duress from a man who was manipulating her.”
I see where he’s going with this reasoning. He’s laying the ground for his arguments in a future litigation.
Raising both hands, I cut him off, “Dad, stop it right there. I was not under duress, and Shelby did not manipulate me.”
“No?” The intensity of his green eyes burns my face. “Then why did you feel the need to run off to Vegas like a foolish teenager instead of handling this through proper channels?”
Is he serious right now? I wonder, scanning my father’s face, trying to decipher his intentions. There’s narcissistic behavior, which Dad has always displayed, and then there’s self-delusional fantasyland. I ask myself where exactly my dad is on that spectrum.
“Because you were going to sell me to Cesare Dellamare like I was a piece of property.” My voice comes out too shrill, so I force myself to modulate it as I continue, “Because you didn’t care what I wanted or my well-being.”
“And Shelby cares about your well-being?” Father’s smile is sharp. “Or does he care more about an alliance with our family? Did he bother to mention that his brother Dave has been encroaching on Italian territory?”
The suggestion burns my chest like a poisonous snake’s bite.
I’ve asked myself these questions a thousand times in the last few days.
I’ve looked for signs that Shelby was using me, that there was a calculation on his part when he accepted my proposal.
And every time, I’ve come back to the certainty that he wasn’t. That he chose me.
What if that conclusion came from my heart instead of my head?
Motherfucker! Doubt is my father’s favorite weapon, and he wields it expertly. He’s done it. He’s planted a seed in my brain that I must stifle right away. Even if Shelby has his own motives, marrying him beats hitching myself to Sleazy Cesare.
Squaring my shoulders, I state, “If that were true, it’d still be my choice to make.”
“Your choice.” He takes a sip of whiskey, his expression contemplative.
“You’re only twenty-five. You’ve lived your entire life under the protection of this family and the Syndicate.
You think you’re equipped to make choices about marriage?
About alliances? You think your judgment is sound when you’re under the influence of a man who specializes in manipulation? ”
“Shelby would never—”
“Shelby is a soldier and an enforcer,” Father interrupts. “The man was trained to follow orders, to execute plans, to find people’s weaknesses. He’ll use whatever means necessary to achieve his objectives. You’re a strategic asset, Serena. Don’t mistake desire for devotion.”
I set down my fork to hide the fact that my hands are beginning to shake. The second course arrives, a steak beautifully presented, but rendered inedible to me by my dad’s insinuations. Gemma, one of the housemaids, pours more whiskey into Father’s glass and retreats to the kitchen.
“I know what you’re trying to do, Dad. It’s not working. I’m not annulling my marriage. And I’m not discussing this any further.”
He leans forward until his forehead almost touches mine.
He grips my cheeks with his large hand, his fingers digging deep to the point of pain.
His voice drops to the menacing tone I know too well as he whispers, “Oh, you will discuss it, Serena, because I’m still your father, and your loyalty is first to me, to this family.
It doesn’t matter that you signed some meaningless papers.
I don’t care how many times you opened your legs to that Irish enforcer. You will do as I say.”
Something inside me breaks.
I stand up so abruptly that my chair scrapes the Persian rug before toppling backward, the sound harsh in the silence of the dining room. All the rage I’ve been swallowing—at his control, his manipulation, his absolute certainty that my life belongs to him—erupts like a volcano.
“You can’t talk to me like that. I’m not a stray cat in heat. I’m not a commodity,” I counter, my voice shaking as fury churns inside me. “My loyalty is absolutely, irrevocably to myself. You can either accept my marriage to Shelby, or you can accept that you’re going to lose me.”
Father’s face darkens. He opens his mouth to respond, but I’m already moving toward the door.
“Enjoy your steak,” I mutter.
Without waiting for his response, I stride through the corridors, my heart pounding so hard I think it might break through my ribs.
By the time I reach the entrance, I’m shaking with adrenaline and the terrifying realization that I just issued an ultimatum to one of the most powerful men in the Syndicate.
A staffer brings my car around, a sleek silver Mercedes I’ve purchased with money I earned from legitimate Syndicate operations. I slide behind the wheel and pull out of the circular driveway.
I’m halfway back to the main gates when I realize I’ve left my clutch somewhere at the house.
As I make a U-turn, I retrace my steps in my mind from the moment I set foot inside the house to the instant I got to the dining room.
“Of course!” I murmur, slapping my forehead. I deposited my clutch on an accent table right outside Dad’s study, intending to retrieve it on my way out.
Here’s to hoping I can manage to grab it back undetected before I head back to Shelby’s apartment.
No, before I go back home, I correct myself.
Wearing a silly grin, so typical on newlyweds’ faces, I park the car again and get out, leaving the engine running.
This should be quick.
I enter the house on tiptoes, not because I fear another confrontation, but because I’m too emotionally drained for that.
As it always happens after a confrontation with my dad, I need time to regroup, to strengthen myself.
The image of Shelby’s smiling face pops up in my mind, and my anxiety subsides.
Fuck, I’ve just realized that I have a partner now!
Sharing my burdens with my husband would be natural.
And that makes all the difference in the world.
Suddenly eager to go home, I snatch the black leather rectangle I came here for and turn to dash out again.
My father’s muffled voice stops me. He’s speaking Italian, which means he’s on the phone with our allies in Europe. “Te l’ho già detto: non ti preoccupare. Serena è testarda come sua madre. Ma riuscirò a convincerla.”
His words send shivers down my spine. He’s talking about me. He’s reassuring somebody that he’ll convince me of something, even though I’m as stubborn as Mom.
What the hell is going on? Is he talking to Cesare? I press a hand to my heart as blood thunders in my ears.
After a brief pause, I find out he’s not talking to my former-future-husband when he says, “Ovviamente, Cesare è coinvolto nel nostro piccolo accordo. Ci sta fornendo i migliori esemplari, più raffinati. Sono di top tier, immacolati. Davvero di prima classe. Non potremmo desiderare un partner migliore.”
I cover my mouth with a hand to keep a disgusted scream in and the lasagna I had for lunch down as my brain translates his words.
It cannot be right. I refuse to accept reality.
I’m fluent in the fucking language. I got it right.
My father is telling someone that Cesare is in on some arrangement he has with the person on the other side of the line.
He’s also saying that the obnoxious man has been bringing Dad the ‘most exquisite specimens, top-tier, pristine, truly first-class’.
Apparently, Cesare is also the best partner my father has ever had.
Fighting the bile that’s starting to rise in my throat, I rush out of the house and into my idling car as if all the hounds of hell were at my heels. Because they are.
I zoom past the gates and merge into the light afternoon traffic without really seeing anything in front of me. I slow down to avoid an accident as my father’s words whirl around my head like a fucking hurricane.
Specimens? What the hell does he mean?
Is he talking about people?
Is my father capable of that?
My heart sinks as I choose not to dive into that possibility.
“Fuck!” I slam a hand on the steering wheel.
This is a situation I could certainly use Shelby’s help with.
But I can’t come to him with suspicions instead of proof.
The Syndicate has very stringent rules against human trafficking of any kind.
If my father is entangled in anything remotely connected to that kind of activity, I need to be a thousand percent sure before I speak with anyone about it.
Not even with my husband.
“Fuck! Shit!” I keep banging my open hand against the leather covering of the wheel. “Motherfucker! What the fuck are you up to, Dad?”
If I’m right, this changes everything because my husband and his family would have to hunt down my father. Despite all my issues with Giovanni DiLorenzo, he is my dad. This war would put my loyalties to the test. Should I follow love or blood? How will I be able to pick a side if it comes to that?