Chapter 18 Serena
Serena
The Syndicate gala is held at the Ferguson & Arpels Hotel, in a private ballroom that overlooks the Boston Public Garden.
Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across the space, and the guest list reads like a who’s who of organized crime families.
Irish, Italian, Russian, all of them bound together by blood, business, and an unspoken code that most people outside our world couldn’t begin to comprehend.
I’ve attended events like this before, always in my capacity as Giovanni DiLorenzo’s daughter.
Always playing a role. Always aware of the calculated nature of every gesture, every conversation, every smile.
Tonight is different, though. Tonight, I’m here with Shelby, and the performance we’re putting on for the Syndicate feels less like a lie and more like the truth.
He looks devastating in a tailored black suit, his dark hair perfectly styled, his blue eyes catching the light as they sweep across the ballroom behind his glasses.
When he stares at me, something shifts in his expression.
There’s a warmth, a hunger, a possessiveness that steals my breath away.
It’s not the calculated look of an actor.
It’s the genuine response of a man who wants the woman beside him.
Even if we’re still pretending that’s all this is.
“Ready?” he asks, extending his hand toward me. His palm is warm, his grip firm as I place my hand in his. He pulls me close enough that I can smell his cologne. The dark, woodsy scent reminds me of smoke, winter, and Shelby Boyle.
“Ready,” I confirm, though my heart is thundering in my chest.
We make our entrance together, and I feel the weight of dozens of eyes on us.
The Syndicate is watching, assessing, and calculating whether this partnership is genuine.
They’re trying to determine if Shelby Boyle, the damaged Marine, the broken enforcer, the man who’s spent the last few years isolating himself, could actually be capable of sustaining a real relationship.
I want them to believe he is. I need them to accept it.
Dave and Alexia are stationed near the bar, and Dave’s expression shifts when he sees us together.
There’s approval there, and something else that I dare say may be relief.
But who knows with these mafia men? They’re all excellent poker players.
Still, I’m picking up a certain vibe from the Syndicate’s leader now as he nods at me.
It’s like he’s been waiting for his brother to find his way back to solid ground, and he’s grateful that it’s finally happening.
“Serena,” Alexia greets me warmly, pulling me into a brief hug. “You look absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you,” I say, acutely aware of Shelby’s hand on the small of my back. The touch is possessive, but not aggressive. It’s a statement: she’s with me. “You’re gorgeous as always, Alexia.”
She is radiant in a deep emerald gown, her golden hair swept up in an elegant style.
She’s the kind of woman who makes this world look less brutal just by her presence.
I wonder sometimes how she does it, how she balances love for a man like Dave with the moral compromises that come with being married into the Syndicate.
“How are things going?” Dave asks Shelby, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. He’s assessing his brother, looking for signs of instability or weakness.
“Good,” Shelby says, and the word carries weight. “Really good, actually.”
He squeezes my waist gently, and I lean into him. It’s a small gesture, but it communicates everything: this is real. This is working. He’s okay.
Dave nods, satisfied, and turns his attention to someone else. The moment he looks away, Shelby leans down and whispers, “Come dance with me.”
The dance floor is full of couples moving to a slow jazz classic. Shelby pulls me into his arms with the ease of someone who knows exactly how to hold a woman. His right hand settles on my waist, his left takes mine, and suddenly we’re moving together like we’ve done this a thousand times.
“You’re staring at me,” I murmur, glancing about us.
“I know,” he says unapologetically. “I like looking at you.”
I raise my eyes to meet his, and the intensity there nearly undoes me. It’s not the look of someone performing for an audience. It’s the look of someone who genuinely wants to memorize every detail of my face. Every freckle. Every flaw. Every part of me that I’ve learned to hide.
“You should know it isn’t polite to stare,” I chuckle, making light conversation because if I don’t, I’m going to do something reckless on this dance floor.
If I don’t focus on talking, I’ll give in to temptation. I’ll run my fingers through my husband’s silky hair. I’ll rub my achingly empty pussy against his hard-on, which is poking my belly. And I’ll pull his head down so that I can kiss him senseless.
As if sensing my real thoughts, Shelby’s arm around my waist brings me closer, crushing my breasts against his chest. “Fuck polite,” he whispers inside my ear, licking a sensitive spot under it.
He swirls me around, bringing my back against his front.
His splayed hand presses my belly, and I gasp when his erection nestles between my ass cheeks.
“You’re wearing my butt plug, pet. Remember? I don’t need to be polite.”
I try to stifle a moan, but fail, and it drops from my lips.
“Your family likes me,” I change the subject before I begin to hump Shelby on the dance floor.
Taking my hint, he swirls me back to face him.
“They’re not the only ones,” Shelby replies, with a wink.
He’s not talking about the fake marriage anymore. He’s not talking about convenience or the cover story we’ve been maintaining. He’s talking about himself. About how he feels about me.
The song ends, and Shelby releases me with obvious reluctance. “I need to talk to Tommy for a minute. Will you be okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him. “Go.”
He kisses my temple before disappearing into the crowd. I watch him go, then make my way toward the balcony, needing a moment of fresh air to collect myself.
The night is cool and clear, the city lights glittering below.
I lean against the railing and breathe deeply, trying to slow my racing heart.
Everything is changing so fast. The investigation into my father.
My feelings for Shelby. The line between performance and reality blurs until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Movement catches my eye, and I turn to see Cesare Dellamare across the balcony, surrounded by a cluster of women in designer gowns. He’s holding court, his smile charming, his gestures expansive. The women laugh at something he says, leaning in closer, competing for his attention.
I watch them and wonder how they miss it. The emptiness in his stare. The way his smile never reaches his eyes. The predatory calculation behind every word, every touch. These women see a handsome Italian businessman with money and connections. They don’t see the monster underneath.
As if sensing my gaze, Cesare turns his head. Our eyes meet across the balcony, and his expression shifts into triumph. Possessiveness. He excuses himself from the women and starts walking toward me.
My stomach drops. I should go back inside.
I should find Shelby. But my feet won’t move, and then it’s too late.
He’s here, standing too close, the scent of his expensive cologne overwhelming my senses.
Bile burns my throat. I press a hand to the base of my throat, wishing I could cover my mouth with it.
But I know better. I can’t give this man an inch. I must stand my ground.
“Serena.” He says my name like he owns it. “I’ve been hoping to catch you alone.”
“Cesare.” I keep my voice flat, uninterested. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“That’s a shame.” He steps closer, backing me against the balcony railing. “Because I have plenty to say to you. Starting with how foolish you were to believe that you could escape our arrangement by running off with that filthy Irish.”
“My marriage to Shelby is none of your concern.”
“Isn’t it?” His hand comes up, and before I can react, he grabs my face, his fingers digging into my cheeks. “You were mine, Serena. Your father gave you to me. And I don’t appreciate having my property stolen.”
I try to pull away, but his grip tightens. His mouth descends toward mine, and panic floods my system. I raise my leg to drive my knee into his groin and find empty air. He’s gone, ripped away from me with violent force.
Shelby slams Cesare against the stone wall of the balcony, his forearm pressed against the Italian’s throat. The sound of the impact echoes across the space, and guests inside the ballroom turn to look.
“Touch her again,” Shelby growls, his voice low and deadly, “and I’ll kill you slowly. But before I do, I’ll cut your dick off and fuck your face with it.”
Cesare laughs, though there’s fear flickering in his empty eyes. “Everyone knows Serena’s a great fuck. Can’t blame a man for wanting a taste.”
The punch comes so fast I barely see it. Shelby’s fist connects with Cesare’s nose, and I hear the crunch of cartilage, see the spray of blood across his white dress shirt. He howls in pain, clutching his face, but Shelby is already drawing back for another blow.
“Shelby.” I place my hand on his shoulder. His muscles are coiled tight, vibrating with barely contained violence. “He’s not worth it. He’s not worth your rage.”
For a moment, I’m not sure he hears me. His blue eyes are fixed on Cesare with murderous intent, his breathing ragged, his whole body primed to inflict damage. But then my touch seems to register, as the tension drains from his muscles.
He releases Cesare, who slumps against the wall, blood streaming from his broken nose.
Dave appears at the balcony doorway, my father right behind him. They take in the scene with quick, assessing glances. Cesare is bleeding, and Shelby is breathing hard.
“Get him out of here,” Dave says quietly to two men who’ve materialized behind him. They grab Cesare under the arms and drag him away, leaving a trail of blood droplets on the stone.
My father’s eyes find mine. Something unreadable passes across his face before he nods once and follows the others inside, leaving Shelby and me alone on the balcony.
The silence stretches between us. Shelby is still heaving, his knuckles red and starting to swell. He won’t look at me.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice rough. “Sorry you had to see my beast. But I won’t let anybody disrespect you like that.”
My heart flips in my chest. I step closer to him, reaching up to cup his face in my hands, forcing him to meet my eyes.
“That’s okay,” I murmur. “I kind of like your beastly side.”
He snickers, some of the tension leaving his face. His arms come around me, pulling me against his chest. We stand there for a moment, wrapped around each other, his heartbeat gradually slowing beneath my ear.
“Not afraid of monsters?” he whispers into my hair.
“Some,” I admit. “But not you.”
“Because you think I’m not a monster?”
I pull back to look at him, at this beautiful, broken, fierce man who just shattered another man’s nose for daring to touch me.
“Because you’re my monster,” I claim.
Something shifts in his expression. Something raw and vulnerable and full of want. His hand comes up to cup my face—gently, so gently, and he leans down to kiss me.
This kiss is slow, intentional, and deliberate. A statement rather than an action. His lips move against mine with purpose, and I taste his promise. It’s his commitment to stop hiding, to stop pretending that what we have is anything less than real.
The kiss escalates quickly. My hands come up to grip his shoulders.
His hand slides from my waist to the curve of my hip, pulling me closer against his throbbing cock.
The kiss deepens, becomes more urgent. We soon realize we need to get out of this ballroom before we do something that will give the entire Syndicate even more reason to talk.
Shelby pulls back, breathing hard. “We’re leaving,” he says, and it’s not a question. “Right now.” He wraps his long fingers around my hand, steps back inside, and starts moving through the crowd.
We nod politely at people who try to engage us in conversation. Nobody tries to stop us. Nobody dares. The Boyle family does what the Boyle family wants to do, and everyone knows better than to get in their way.