Chapter 17 Serena
Serena
The Varese Inc. tower rises before me. Standing on the sidewalk, I tilt my head back to take in the sleek glass facade that curves elegantly toward the Boston sky.
The building was designed by a renowned architect who has received several awards for her work.
With its clean lines and reflective surfaces, it’s breathtaking.
It’s the kind of structure that commands respect, that announces to the world: we have arrived, and we are here to stay.
My father named the company after Varese, the tiny town near Milan where my mother was born. He told us this story countless times as we grew up, his voice softening in a way it rarely did. He would go on to describe how he’d proposed to her at the Sacro Monte, surrounded by ancient trees.
How can such a romantic husband be a horrible person? I must be mistaken, I tell myself for the hundredth time. Maybe there’s an explanation for the information I’ve found.
Doubt gnaws at me as I watch employees stream in and out of the revolving doors. Suits and briefcases, pressed shirts and polished shoes. They look like any other corporate workers in any other building in Boston’s Financial District.
But what explanation could there possibly be for those physical descriptions and availability status?
I shake off the dark thoughts and cross the street, my heels clicking against the pavement.
Across the intersection, the Ferguson they just happen.”
Before I can respond, the office door swings open without warning. Our father strides in, commanding attention and exuding authority as he always does. Giovanni DiLorenzo, at sixty-three, is still an imposing figure. Today, he’s wearing a black Armani suit, with a silk tie in deep burgundy.
“Serena!” His face lights up with genuine pleasure, and he crosses the room to pull me into a warm embrace. “Tesoro mio, I didn’t know you were coming to the office today.”
The warmth in his voice completely throws me. This is the father of my childhood, the one who called me his treasure, who taught me to ride a bicycle, who held me when I cried over scraped knees and broken friendships.
How can this be the same man who trades in human lives?
“Dad,” I manage, returning his embrace even as my skin crawls. “I’m here to go over the final details for tomorrow’s gala with Joe.”
“Ah, yes. The fundraiser.” He releases me and steps back, beaming with what looks like genuine pride. “My brilliant daughter, organizing events for the Hearts of Stone Syndicate’s charities. Your mother would be so proud.”
The mention of my mother feels like a knife between my ribs. Did he think about her when he was building his trafficking empire? Did he ever feel guilt or shame?
“How’s Shelby treating you?” my father asks, settling into the chair beside mine with the ease of a man who’s comfortable everywhere.
“He treats me well,” I say carefully.
“Good, good.” My father reaches over and squeezes my hand, his grip warm and familiar.
“You deserve happiness, tesoro. I realize now that I was wrong to push you toward that marriage with Cesare. A father wants what’s best for his children, but sometimes we get blinded by strategy and forget what really matters. ”
I stare at him, searching for any sign of deception, any hint that this warmth is calculated. But I see only a father who loves his daughter.
“I should let you two get to work,” he says, rising from the chair with grace. “Serena, dinner this weekend? Just the family. Isabella has been asking about you.”
“I’d like that,” I hear myself say, and part of me means it.
He kisses my forehead, squeezes Joe’s shoulder, and sweeps out of the office as abruptly as he entered, leaving the scent of his cologne and a thousand unanswered questions in his wake.
Joe watches me, an unreadable expression on his face. “You okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just tired. The gala preparations have been intense.”
He nods, accepting the excuse, and pulls a tablet from his desk drawer. “Speaking of which, let’s go through the final arrangements. The caterers confirmed this morning, and security protocols are in place...”
His words wash over me, but my mind is elsewhere.
Trapped in the contradiction of a father who speaks of love while trafficking in human misery.
A man who named his company after the place where he proposed to my mother, then built it on the backs of victims whose names appear in spreadsheets like inventory.
What if I’m wrong?
The thought hits me like a wave, stealing my breath. What if there’s an explanation I haven’t considered? What if the documents mean something different than what I assumed? Maybe my father, for all his flaws, isn’t the monster I’ve been building in my mind?
Oh, my God. I need to keep digging for the truth.
Because the alternative, condemning my father on incomplete information, watching Shelby and the Syndicate destroy him based on evidence I might have misinterpreted, is unthinkable.
“Serena?” Joe’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “Did you hear what I said about the seating arrangements?”