Chapter 33 Serena
Serena
The restaurant Isabella chose for lunch is a quiet Italian place in the Back Bay, the kind of establishment where the owner knows your family name and the waitstaff disappears until you need them.
Private booths with high backs. White tablecloths.
The scent of fresh bread and simmering tomato sauce reminds me of our grandmother’s kitchen in Varese.
I arrive first, sliding into the booth and ordering sparkling water while I wait. My hands are steady, but my heart is not. In a few hours, our father will stand trial before the Syndicate founders. And everything our family has built will implode.
And I’m the one who set the demolition charges.
Isabella appears at precisely noon, her golden hair, the same shade as Mom’s, is swept back in an elegant twist. Her designer dress is modest. At twenty-two, she’s already mastered the art of looking like a DiLorenzo daughter—poised, beautiful, and untouchable.
But I see the shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders that mirrors my own.
“Serena.” She slides into the booth across from me and reaches for my hand. Her grip is tight, her voice tense as she murmurs, “Are you okay? Joe told me that Dad kidnapped you. That’s so…” She trails off as if searching for words to describe my ordeals.
“Fucked up?” I supply.
“Exactly.” Her dark eyes meet mine.
The waiter approaches, and we order without looking at menus. Caprese salad. Gnocchi in butter. Food we’ve been eating together since childhood, comfort in familiar flavors.
When we’re alone again, Isabella leans forward. “Tell me everything. I’m sure Joe gave me a filtered version. He’s always shielding me from life.”
I nod, agreeing with her tone that states Joe’s attempts are useless. He’s doing Isabella a disservice with that kind of behavior.
As we eat, I tell her about the evidence I gathered. The manifests that prove Dad was tracking human beings like cattle.
“Remember Lucia Rossi?” I ask.
My sister sets the fork beside her plate, frowning. “Of course. I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“We rescued her from one of Dad’s cells.”
Her dark eyes tear up. I cover her hand with mine, squeezing it. “I know. There’s a lot to process. You sure you want to hear it all?”
“I need to,” she whispers. “Nikolai told me he’s been tracking down a group of nasty men. He never mentioned Dad was one of them.”
I hold her gaze for a moment, unable to hold in a smile. “Nikolai, huh?”
She waves her hand, dismissive. “That’s a whole different story for another time. Forget I mentioned him.”
“Sorry. Can’t do that. My little sister and the smoking-hot Bratva heir? That’s too juicy. So no more waiting for your wedding night?” I tease her.
“Will you finish your story if I promise to tell you mine afterward?”
“Deal.”
So, I tell her about Father’s dungeon, the chains, the video he showed me of Shelby with another woman. The frustration I experienced when I realized it was a deepfake, something I should have recognized but didn’t because I was too broken to think clearly.
I detail my rescue, Shelby coming for me, and the choice I made to help the Boyles bring our father to justice.
When I finish, Isabella is pale. Her untouched water glass sweats condensation onto the white tablecloth. She drains the Bordeaux from the wine glass.
“I had a feeling things were wrong,” she whispers. “Father hasn’t been the same since Mom passed. But this...” She shakes her head. “Trafficking. Children. How could he?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question.” I take a sip of wine, washing away the bitterness of disillusionment. “The man who tucked us in at night and sobbed at Mom’s funeral—how did he become a monster?”
The waiter returns with our desserts. Neither of us moves to eat.
“The trial is tomorrow,” I say finally. “The founders will judge him. You know what that means.”
Isabella’s jaw tightens. “Execution.”
“If they find him guilty. Which they will, because the evidence is irrefutable.” I pause, letting the weight of those words settle between us. “I gathered that evidence, sis. I’m the reason our father will die.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing patterns on the tablecloth. When she speaks, her voice is surprisingly steady.
“You’re not the reason he’ll die. He is. His choices. His crimes.” She looks up, meeting my eyes. “You didn’t make him traffic human beings. You didn’t make him sell Lucia Rossi to some monster. You just shone a light on what was already there.”
The absolution in her words loosens the steel bands that have been crushing my heart. I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear them until now.
“What happens to us?” Isabella asks. “After. What happens to the DiLorenzo name, the family business?”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” I push my Tiramisu around with a fork. “The legitimate businesses can survive. The oil company, the import business, the real estate holdings—those are clean. We can rebuild on that foundation.”
“But the Syndicate connections? The power? The influence?”
“Gone.” I don’t sugarcoat it. “At least temporarily. Joe will have to earn back whatever trust the families are willing to extend. It could take years.”
“Joe.” Isabella’s expression shifts, a seriousness beyond her years moving behind her eyes. “Has he accepted the truth about Father?”
“I think so. He didn’t want to believe it at first. None of us did. But the evidence is overwhelming.” I hesitate. “He’s been talking to Dave Boyle, working through the political implications. I think he’s trying to figure out how to hold what’s left of our family together.”
“While you testify against our father.”
The words hang between us, heavy and sharp.
“Yes.” I don’t look away from her gaze. “While I testify against our father.”
Isabella reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“I’m not going to pretend this isn’t complicated.
He’s still our father. Part of me will always love him, even knowing what he’s done.
” Her grip tightens. “But Serena, if our positions were reversed, if I had found that evidence, I hope I would have your courage.”
“It’s not courage.” My voice breaks slightly. “It’s survival. It’s choosing love over fear.”
“That sounds like courage to me.”
We sit in silence for a moment, two sisters bound by blood and broken by the same lies. The DiLorenzo daughters, raised to be weapons in their father’s arsenal, finally turning that training toward justice.
“Lying in that dungeon, chained to a bed, wondering if Shelby would find me before Father decided I was more useful dead than alive—you develop clarity about what matters.”
“What do you mean?”
“Love.” The word comes out without hesitation. “Trust. Choosing the people who choose you back, even when it costs everything.”
“Shelby.”
“Shelby.” I allow my lips to curve into a grin. “He came for me. When Father had me locked away, Shelby came for me. No hesitation.”
“He loves you.”
“He loves me.” The wonder of it steals my breath away. “And I love him. It might seem fast, our marriage did start as a strategy to escape Cesare’s trap, but somewhere along the way—”
“It became real.” Isabella’s expression softens. “I could see it, you know. It was clear in the way you two looked at each other. That wasn’t a strategy. That was something deeper.”
“I spent so long building walls.” I stare at my water glass, at the bubbles rising to the surface. “After Marco betrayed me, after I learned that trust leads to deception, I thought I’d never let anyone in again. I thought the walls would protect me.”
“And now?”
“Now I understand that walls don’t protect you. They just make sure you’re alone when the darkness comes.” I meet her eyes. “Shelby doesn’t tear down my walls. He just climbs over them. Again and again, no matter how high I build them.”
Isabella laughs softly. “That sounds exhausting. For both of you.”
“It is. It’s also worth it. He’s worth it. This life we’re building together, even with all the complications and the family drama and the blood on our hands. It's all worth it.”
We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes.
The Tiramisu is mouthwatering, rich, and buttery, exactly as I remember from childhood.
Strange, how food can carry so many memories.
This dessert reminds me of Sunday dinners at the estate, Mother alive and laughing, Joe teasing me about my latest crush.
Before everything went so fucking wrong.
“I need to ask you something.” Isabella sets down her fork. “And I need you to be honest with me.”
“Always.”
“Do you regret it? Any of it? Marrying Shelby, investigating the ring, choosing the Boyles over Dad?”
I consider the question carefully. It deserves a real answer, not a reflexive one.
“I regret that our father made choices that forced me to make choices,” I say finally. “I regret that he turned out to be capable of such cruelty. I especially regret the pain this is causing Joe, and you, and everyone who loved the version of Giovanni DiLorenzo that existed in our memories.”
“But the choices themselves?”
“No.” The word is firm. Certain. “I don’t regret becoming the person who could look at evil and decide to fight it, even when that evil wore my father’s face.”
Isabella nods slowly, processing. Then she reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
“Then I support you, whatever happens. And, after the trial, when this is all over, when we’re picking up the pieces of what’s left of our family, I’ll be there. We’ll rebuild together.”
The tears that have been threatening all morning finally spill over. I blink them away, but Isabella sees. She always sees.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “You have no idea how much your support means to me.”
“We’re DiLorenzo women.” Her smile is fierce and proud. “We survive. We adapt. And we protect each other, even when we can’t protect ourselves.”
“Absolutely.” I lean closer. “Don’t think I forgot your promise, little sister. Now, spill it. You and Nikolai?”
“Oh, boy!” Isabella’s cheeks light up with a raging flush. “Where do I start?”
I wink. “The beginning is usually a good place to start.”
Shelby is waiting when I get back to the safe house.
He’s standing by the window, silhouetted against the gray December sky, and something about his posture tells me he’s been there for a while. Watching. Waiting. Worrying.
“Hey.” I cross the room and slip my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my cheek against his back. “Miss me?”
He turns in my embrace, gathering me close. His lips brush my forehead, my temple, the corner of my mouth.
“Always.” The word is rough with emotion. “How was lunch with Isabella?”
“Hard. Necessary.” I pull back enough to look at him. “She supports me. Whatever happens tomorrow, she’s on my side.”
Relief flickers across his features. “I’m glad. You shouldn’t have to face this alone.”
“I’m not alone.” I reach up, touching his face. The stubble on his jaw rasps against my palm. “I have you.”
“You have me,” he agrees. “For as long as you want me.”
“Forever, then.”
His smile is genuine. “Forever works for me.”
I take a breath, gathering the words I’ve been rehearsing since lunch. Since the dungeon. Since the moment I first understood what my father truly was.
“I’m done being afraid.” My voice is steady, stronger than I expected.
“I’m done protecting myself at the cost of everything else.
For years, I built walls and calculated every interaction like a chess match, because I thought that was the only way to survive.
I thought vulnerability was weakness. I thought trust was a trap. ”
Shelby’s expression is soft, patient. He doesn’t interrupt.
“But you showed me a different side. That vulnerability can be strength. That real trust, the kind that means letting someone see your darkness, is the only thing worth fighting for.” I step closer, placing my hand on his chest, over his heart.
“Shelby, if you meant what you said, if you really love me, emotional scars and all, then I’m yours.
With all my damage and all my fear and all the ways I’m still learning to be whole. ”
His hands come up to cup my face, thumbs brushing away tears I couldn’t keep from falling.
“I meant every word,” he says quietly. “I love you, Serena. Not despite your flaws, but because of them. Because they made you who you are. Because you’re the bravest person I know, but you don’t know it.”
“I don’t feel brave.”
“Bravery isn’t the absence of fear.” He leans his forehead against mine. “It’s acknowledging you’re scared and choosing to act anyway. It’s choosing love when every instinct screams at you to run. It’s choosing justice when loyalty to your family would be so much easier.”
“I chose you.” The words are a confession and a promise. “Over my father, my family, and everything I thought defined me.”
“And I chose you yesterday. Today.” His lips brush mine, featherlight. “Tomorrow. Every day after that. For as long as you’ll have me.”
I kiss him then, deep and slow, pouring everything I can’t say into the press of our mouths. The fear and the hope. The grief and the joy. The terrifying, exhilarating certainty that I’ve finally found the person worth fighting for.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “The trial.”
“Tomorrow,” he agrees. “Whatever happens, we face it together.”
Together.
The word settles over me like armor. Like the beginning of something new.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t know if my father will grovel for mercy or die with his pride intact. I don’t know what will be left of my family when the dust settles.
But I know that I’m not alone anymore.
And that makes all the difference.