Chapter 10 - Serena
Serena
I need to gather intel on my father’s activities before I head home and talk to Shelby.
So I end up going to a nearby shopping mall to pass the time until my father leaves for a three o’clock appointment at his office downtown.
I set up that meeting for Dad with some potential investors a couple of weeks ago.
And I’ve just confirmed with his assistant that it’s still on his calendar.
I designed Dad’s security system years ago. So, it recognizes my biometrics as it scans my irises. The cameras in the east wing have a blind spot that I can use now as I park the car under it.
I move through the corridors with practiced agility, the sneakers making no sound on the Italian marble. I bought the sports shoes at the mall to replace the Manolos I was wearing earlier.
My father’s private study is locked, as always. The security panel beside the door glows in the dim corridor lighting. I input the code he thinks no one knows.
The lock clicks open.
I slip inside and close the door carefully behind me. The study smells like him—expensive cognac, Cuban cigars, and power. The scent of a man who’s built an empire on the backs of people who didn’t dare say no to him for fear of dying.
His massive, ancient mahogany desk faces the windows that overlook the gardens Mom designed and cultivated. The afternoon sunlight pours through the panes.
My hands are steady, which surprises me. I expected fear, but what I feel instead is cold clarity. The kind of focused intensity that comes when you’re standing on the edge of something that will change everything.
I skim the printed documents spread across the desk. I open a leather-bound ledger that was tucked beneath a copy of the Financial Times.
Then, I begin snapping pictures. Cesare’s name appears on the first document I examine. Then again, on the second. And the third.
The words blur together as I read: procurement, logistics, asset movement, inventory management. Sanitized language for something unsavory. My stomach tightens as the implications begin to crystallize.
I photograph every page methodically. My father’s handwriting. His signature. His direct involvement is impossible to deny.
It takes me forty minutes to capture everything. When I’m done, I replace each item exactly as it was—a skill learned from years of playing this game. I always leave things as I found them. Never give anyone reason to suspect I’ve been digging.
I spot a flash drive sitting innocuously beside his computer mouse. In anticipation of finding something like this, I bought a flash drive at the mall as well.
I fire up Father’s computer and, as I copy the information from his flash drive to mine, I access the security system and erase all traces of my presence here today, including the footage of my car entering the property.
I set a timer to delay the start of the new recording, giving me time to leave the grounds undetected.
When it’s all done, I shut down the computer and pocket the drive with the real information.
The weight of what it contains burns a hole in my palm.
I move back through the corridors, retracing my path to the blind spot, slipping through the shadows like a ghost. By the time I reach my new home, my heart has stopped racing. The adrenaline has burned away, leaving only purpose in its wake.
I lock myself in the master bedroom and slide the flash drive into my laptop. Shelby isn’t home, but his staffers are. I can’t risk prying eyes seeing whatever information is in here before I’ve had a chance to digest it.
The files unfold before me like a nightmare.
Lists of names. At this point, I don’t know if they’re clients or victims.
Photographs of women and children, their eyes haunted in ways that make my chest constrict.
Locations.
Dates.
Payment records.
And endless spreadsheets tracking human beings like inventory.
One is labeled Procurement Schedule Q3 2025.
I swallow hard as my eyes keep skimming the pages.
Names with birth dates.
More pictures with crude physical descriptions, estimated value, and availability status for the most despicable sexual acts.
Despite the bile burning my throat, I don’t stop reading.
There’s a section labeled European Operations. Cesare’s name appears repeatedly in connection with Italian logistics. My father’s notes beside each entry are clinical: reliable partner, efficient operations, minimal complications.
Minimal complications. As if he’s discussing the delivery of wine, not the trafficking of human beings.
With a thud, I close the laptop and run to the en-suite bathroom, where I vomit violently.
The shock of it, the scale of it, the fact that my father has been running a human trafficking operation under the cover of business as usual.
The man taught me about family honor, Syndicate loyalty, and the importance of protecting what’s yours.
How can I square that person with the one in those files?
When I’m done, I rinse my mouth and stare at myself in the mirror. The woman looking back is pale but composed. She looks like she’s always known this about her father. Like she’s simply been waiting for confirmation.
Maybe I have.
That could be what all those years of avoiding father’s dealings were really about. At some level, I might have recognized the rot beneath the surface. Some subconscious part of me understood that Giovanni DiLorenzo wasn’t just a businessman—he was a predator in an expensive suit.
I return to the room and spend the next couple of hours methodically duplicating every file from the flash drive, every picture I snapped.
I create folders in encrypted locations.
I back everything up to the cloud with passwords only I know.
My goal is to build a cyber fortress to hold this precious evidence.
I’m building a digital palace that my father can’t destroy, where he can’t invade and make any of this disappear.
By the time I finish, I’ve branded all names and faces to my photographic memory. The same way Father branded them in those spreadsheets, like they weren’t human beings, just inventory to be tracked and traded.
I know the scope of the whole operation.
I understand that this isn’t some isolated criminal enterprise.
It’s purposely integrated into multiple legitimate businesses run by powerful people.
The fucking thing has been designed with such precision that bringing all those involved to justice would be almost impossible.
Which means my father didn’t stumble into this. He built it deliberately. Knowingly. With full understanding of what he was doing.
The realization should destroy me. Instead, it clarifies everything.
I text Shelby: We need to talk. Now. Neutral territory.
His response comes within seconds: The warehouse on the harbor. One hour.