Page 15

Serafina
It's D-Day.
The villa courtyard is buried under white roses, their heavy scent clogging the air. It’s my wedding day, the day I’m handed over to Enzo Mancini for the sake of peace. Father wouldn't let it happen in church. Too many eyes. Too many loopholes. Our enemies could be lurking.
And he's not entirely sure Enzo has completely bought into this idea. For all we know, his men could be somewhere, waiting on his order to attack at the right time. Father says it's better to have it where his men are. This is where his power most reigns. I agree with him.
I’m in my room, staring at my reflection. I could cut and run, but even as I think it, I know it's the worst idea to conceive. There's nowhere on earth Papa's influence doesn't stretch to. Besides, I've never been a runner. I always stay and fight. That, and also the fact that running would just raise Enzo's ire, then we're looking at a raging war where both parties lose immensely.
I smooth my hands over my ivory silk dress. It hugs my curves in all the right places. The neckline plunges low and bold revealing the top of my cleavage. My dark curls are pinned up, a few strands framing my face. I look hard into the mirror and my green eyes glare back sharply at the reflection before me. I'm a stunning vision in a wedding dress, a fucking queen in white. I almost smile, but the whole reason behind it sours my mood, sobering me up.
On the outside, I look composed. I won't have it any other way. No need to bare my apprehension to the world, and certainly not to Enzo. I briefly wondered if he'd come to my father with the idea or if it'd been the other way around. I guess I'll never know, because there's no way I'm asking.
There's no way I'm giving him more room for accessibility. What he sees is what he gets. There'll be no communication unless absolutely necessary. There certainly won't be any romance. That bastard’s already gotten too close four years ago in that hotel. My lips tingle traitorously, and I hate it. I hate how my body remembers him, how it wants him, even now.
Losing control once,or twicewith him was enough. Heat pools down below, between my feminine folds. I shut my eyes, groaning as a recollection of that night comes crashing back. It'sbad enough that I'd fucked a man, who at the time, had been a complete stranger. Even worse that I'd acted like a whore. Papa would be mortified if he knew.
Maybe Enzo thinks I'm still that girl from that night. Maybe he thinks he can screw with me, and I'll allow it, but I'm a grown woman now. I've moved on from that mistake. I'm hardened by years of aloneness and trying to prove a point to Papa, who I've come to realize, doesn't give a flying fuck about me. So, I definitely have let the attraction I have for Enzo die a natural death. There's a lot at stake. I won't allow whatever situation, past or present, influence my decision.
Heaven forbid I allow it.
I'm not one to give in to nervousness. But every moment I spend in this room, awaiting my fate, terror gnaws at my insides, threatening to tear out and bare its face. This wedding, held at Papa’s villa to shout the peace between Rossis and Mancinis, feels like a cage closing in. I’m marrying my enemy, and no flowers or fanfare can hide that.
Lolita, my therapist, had told me not to fight it, if fighting it means it makes me mad. She'd advised compliance. To simply go with it. And although she hadn't been privy to the real cause of my anger, it'd annoyed me that she had belittled my emotions and likened it to something minor. Like my rage is a petty tantrum. I'd decided then and there to stop consulting her. I'm aware of how simply unfair that'd be to her, but it just is what it is.
A hard knock breaks into my thoughts. Carlo’s voice comes through. “Ms. Rossi, warehouse issue.”
“Merda,” I swear.
I open the door to behold Carlo in a suit, ready for the wedding too.
“Is there no one else to tackle it? Are we short of men?”
“Si, Signorina. Most of Signor Rossi’s trusted men are in the courtyard. This needs to be handled discreetly.”
My jaw tightens. Business doesn’t stop, not even today. I don't stop to think if Papa would get mad that I'd handled it. There's a reason Carlo came to me. “Wait,” I tell him. I turn around into the room and kick off my heels. I pull out my boots from under the drawers and put them on. I throw a black jacket over my dress, then I walk out to Carlo.
“Where is it happening?”
Carlo fills me in as I walk briskly beside him, the silk underneath my coat swishing. He leads me to the barely lit basement. In there, I see two of our men holding a guy tied to a chair.John. His face is battered, blood dripping from his lip.
He’s a traitor. He's been leaking secrets to a rival crew, Carlo had told me. The fucking bastard. I feel my anger at thewhole happening of today—this wedding, Enzo—fusing with my distaste for this traditore. My fire flares.
I step close and bending at my waist and lean down towards him. I look him square in the eyes. “Cazzo,” I spit venomously at him. He returns my stare, not flinching. He's stupid. I hit him hard across the face. My palm stings, but my simmering fury is barely sated. No traitor is allowed on my father's crew. There's simply no room for shitheads.
“Talk.” My voice is cold. He spits, the saliva hissing out of his mouth in a sulking sound. I move back in time for it to land on my boot.
In addition to being stupid, he's brave. I give him that. This defiant act will only cost him. One of the two men holding him hit him hard with the butt of a gun. The other kicks his feet in a ferocious manner. John approaches to administer his punishment too, but I hold my hand up to stop him. I'm quite capable of dealing with him myself.
I laugh, and the sound comes out cold and sharp. I stamp my feet in a futile attempt to get the traitor’s saliva off my boot. “Leave him to me,” I say to the men.
I grab a knife from the table and I feel its familiar weight as I weigh it against his face. His eyes trace the movement of the knife as I slowly brandish it in his face. I see the fear creep into his eyes, despite his false bravado. He tries hard to mask it. “That was your worst mistake,” I say, my teeth bared.
I grab his face in my hand, my fingers pressing hard on his hollowed cheeks. I keep eye contact as I press the sharp tip of the knife to his face. I don't blink as I slash the knife across the skin of his face. He screams now as he shakes in his chair. Blood oozes out from the gash on his face and it spills onto the basement floor, smearing my boots, mixing with the saliva he'd so foolishly spat.
The two men hold him as he quakes, yelling expletives. He yells other things, things I want to hear such as names, routes, plans. Good. I smile at him wryly. If he'd initially led with that, we wouldn't be here.
I step back from him, dropping the knife back on the table with cold relish. His blood is on my hands, a testament to my ruthlessness. I can be cold-blooded when the occasion calls for it. It's such a pity John had to find out the hard way.