Chapter 21 Serena
Serena
The private jet lifts off from Boston’s Hanscom Field just as the sun begins its descent, painting the sky in streaks of amber and rose.
I sink into the cream leather seat and watch the city shrink beneath us, feeling something in my chest loosen with each mile we put between ourselves and everything waiting for us on the ground.
My father’s trafficking ring. The investigation that consumes our waking hours. The Syndicate’s rules that loom over my family’s future.
For the next seventy-two hours, none of it exists.
That’s the deal Shelby proposed this morning, his voice still rough with sleep, his fingers tracing lazy patterns across my bare hip. “Come away with me,” he murmured against my hair. “Just us. No Syndicate, no surveillance, no talk of your father’s operation. I want to show you something.”
I didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask where or why or how long. I just said yes.
Now, somewhere over the Atlantic, I’m beginning to understand what he meant.
Shelby emerges from the cockpit area, where he’s been speaking with the pilot.
He’s wearing faded jeans and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.
The perpetual tension in his shoulders has eased.
The shadows under his eyes have softened.
He looks almost happy.
The realization makes my heart stutter.
“Everything okay?” I ask as he settles into the seat beside me.
“Perfect.” He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “We’ll land in Florianópolis in about ten hours. I’ve already called ahead to dismiss the staff for the weekend.”
“Staff?”
His mouth curves into that devastating half-smile. “I have a house there. Beachfront property on a private stretch of coastline. I bought it years ago, before I was deployed to Syria. When I still believed in things like vacations and future happiness.”
The admission is casual, but I hear the weight beneath it. Before Syria. Before he stopped believing he deserved good things.
“And now?” I press gently.
His blue eyes find mine, and vulnerability flickers in their depths. “Now I’m starting to believe again.”
I don’t trust myself to speak. Instead, I lean across the armrest and kiss him, soft and sweet, trying to pour my feelings into the contact. His hand comes up to cup my face, holding me close even after our lips part.
“I have one condition for this trip,” he says, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. “No role-playing. No ‘sir’ and ‘pet’. Just Shelby and Serena, figuring out what this is between us.”
My breath catches. Our D/s dynamic has become a comfortable space for both of us, a structured framework where the rules are clear and the boundaries defined. Without it, we’re just two people, raw and exposed.
The thought terrifies me.
It also thrills me.
“Deal,” I whisper.
We land in Brazil as dawn breaks over the coastline.
To my surprise, the drive from the airport takes us through rolling hills and vast farmland.
From the main road, I sometimes catch glimpses of sugar-white beaches down cliffs.
We turn onto a private road that winds through dense vegetation.
When the property finally comes into view, I forget how to breathe.
It’s not a house. It’s a dream rendered in glass and stone.
The structure rises from the hillside like it grew there, all clean modern lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the turquoise ocean beyond. An infinity pool spills toward the horizon. Tropical gardens cascade down the slope toward a pristine crescent of sand.
“Shelby.” His name escapes me on an exhale.
“You like it?” He’s watching my reaction with an intensity that warms my heart.
“It’s paradise.”
His smile is quiet, pleased. “That’s the idea.”
Inside, the house is just as stunning. Open spaces flow into one another, decorated in shades of white and pale blue. The furniture is comfortable, inviting. Every window offers a different view of the ocean.
But what catches my attention is the art.
Paintings cover almost every wall. Seascapes, abstracts, portraits, and some watercolors. They’re beautiful, technically complex, emotionally resonant. And they all share a similar style.
“These are yours,” I realize, without looking for a signature. “You painted all of these.”
Shelby shrugs, but I catch the flush that creeps up his neck. “This place used to be my escape. I’d come here for a few weeks at a time, just me and the canvas and the ocean.”
I move closer to a large seascape that dominates the living room wall. The brushstrokes are confident, almost aggressive, but there’s a haunting in the way he’s captured the light on the water. It’s like beauty and danger exist in the same breath.
“They’re incredible,” I say, and I mean it. “Why didn’t you tell me you were this talented?”
“I haven’t been this version of myself in a long time.” He comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. “You’re bringing him back.”
I turn in his embrace, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. The stubble is rough beneath my fingertips. “I like this version,” I admit. “I like all your versions, but this one seems lighter.”
“He feels lighter.” Shelby presses his forehead to mine. “When I’m with you, I don’t hear the ghosts.”
We stand there for a long moment, wrapped in each other, while the Brazilian sun climbs higher and the ocean murmurs beyond the windows.
“So,” I finally say, breaking the comfortable silence. “What’s the plan for this honeymoon of ours?”
His grin turns boyish, and my heart does a ridiculous flip. “First, breakfast. I’m cooking.”
“You cook?”
“álainn, I’m a man of many talents.” He releases me with a wink and heads toward the kitchen. “Go explore. Get comfortable. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
He wasn’t lying about the cooking.
An hour later, I’m seated at a polished wooden table on the covered porch, staring at a spread that would make a professional chef weep. Fresh tropical fruits arranged in a colorful mosaic. Fluffy scrambled eggs with herbs. Crispy bacon. Freshly squeezed juice, the color of a California sunset.
“Where did you learn to do this?” I ask around a mouthful of the most perfect eggs I’ve ever tasted.
Shelby leans back in his chair, cradling a cup of coffee. The morning breeze ruffles his dark hair. He looks so different from the haunted man who returned from Russia, the controlled enforcer who serves the Syndicate with lethal precision.
Here, he’s just a man. My man.
“My mother,” he says. “She insisted all her boys learn to cook. Said she wasn’t raising men who couldn’t take care of themselves or their partners.”
The mention of Martha Boyle softens something in his expression.
I grew up admiring her accomplishments. She ran Harvard’s department of Psychology and published outstanding research on trauma and recovery.
Then, five years ago, she died in the hospital.
Everyone thought it was an illness. Just recently, Shelby and his brothers discovered she was actually murdered. Her death still haunts the family.
“She was amazing,” I offer.
“Yeah, she was.” He’s quiet for a moment, gazing out at the ocean. “She liked you, you know, right? She always said the DiLorenzo women were forces of nature.” A rueful smile. “She was a close friend of your mother’s.”
“I miss my mother so much. I think about her every day.” The admission slips out before I can stop it.
“I was fifteen when she died, ten years ago. My father changed after that.” I pause, surprised by the words coming out of me.
I had never realized this before. “It was like losing her broke something in him. He became harder. Colder. More focused on the business.”
Shelby reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I’m sorry. That must have been lonely.”
“It was.” I turn my palm up to lace our fingers together. “Growing up, my house was a loving, safe space. After Mom died, Dad made sure we understood that love was a liability. Attachments made you weak. Trust made you vulnerable. Better to keep everyone at arm’s length.”
“Sounds familiar. Although I didn’t learn this from my parents,” Shelby murmurs, and we share a look of mutual understanding.
We’re two broken people who were taught that walls were safer than bridges. Yet here we are, slowly dismantling our defenses, one brick at a time.
With a wink, Shelby adds, “Jack and Martha were the happiest, most obnoxiously in love couple I’ve ever met.”
“I know!” I roll my eyes, playfully chuckling. “They dominated the dance floor at any Syndicate event.”
He laughs along before his expression turns serious again, and he changes the subject. “What changed for you? What made you decide to let me in?”
I consider the question. There are so many answers. The way he looks at me like I’m worth something. The way he defended me against Cesare without hesitation. The way he held me after he woke from his nightmares, trembling and raw, but not hiding his pain.
However, the true answer is simpler than all of that.
“You didn’t try to control me,” I say. “Every other man in my life wanted to own me. Mold me. Use me for their own purposes. Even Joe, the most protective brother a girl could have. He never sided with me when that meant crossing our father. But you chose to stand beside me.” I squeeze his hand.
“That’s something I never thought possible. ”
Shelby’s throat works as he swallows. “Serena, I was just…”
“Yes, we started this as a strategic move,” I continue, the words tumbling out, unstoppable.
“A fake marriage to escape my father’s trap.
But somewhere along the way, it stopped being fake for me.
Or maybe I’ve been falling for you long before the night I showed up in the middle of the night and asked you to save me. ”
The confession hangs in the air like smoke from a wildfire, heavy, terrifying, and unavoidable.
Shelby stands abruptly.