Page 13 of Sworn to the Enemy

Serafina

I wake to soft light filtering through heavy curtains.

My mind’s foggy, caught in that hazy limbo between sleep and awareness, and for a moment, I’m unmoored, grasping for where I am.

My body's sinking into a bed that’s too plush, too foreign.

I groan, pushing my eyes open. The room smells of lavender and polished wood.

For a moment, I’m adrift, my mind grasping for place.

The ceiling looms high, carved with swirling patterns, and the walls are draped in muted gold silk. I blink up in confusion. This doesn't look like my room. Not my old bedroom in Papa’s house, not the dorm at Yale, not even the sterile hotel rooms I’ve crashed in over the years.

Panic seizes me. I don't want to be in that place again.

I'd awoken in a strange place six years ago after my flight from Yale.

It was after I'd gotten the news of my mother's death.

Papa had sent a jet for me to come home for her burial.

I don't know how I got through the flight, but somehow, I managed to sleep through it.

Only to awaken sometime later in a strange room.

Only, it wasn't a strange room. It was my old bedroom from before I went to Yale. Panic had gnawed at me as I remembered why I was there. It was for my mother's death. I'd sobbed until I was inconsolable. That was the last time I remember crying.

After the burial ceremony, I'd left the room with its belongings and moved to another room, because I'd always associate it with a bad memory. Ever since, I'd always hate to wake in a room I'm not familiar with.

Now, I look around in despair, transported back to that time. It's quiet, too quiet. My memory from the day before is hazy. I can't seem to recollect a thing. Has someone died?

Where am I?

Then it hits me. I'm in my new home. That home being Enzo’s manor, and by implication, my prison.

I bolt upright as my chest tightens, threatening to squeeze the life out of me.

I do breathing exercises. I inhale sharply, and exhale slowly, counting to hundred in my head. Lolita would be proud of me.

Little by little, I feel my quickened heartbeat begin to slow down, the dread falling away. I force myself to face it.

I’m Serafina Rossi, now Mancini by name, and I’m in my enemy’s house, married to a man whose touch last night burned me alive.

The memory of Enzo—his hands, his mouth, his cock—floods me, unbidden.

My thighs clench, heat pooling low despite my hate.

I shove it down hard. I won't think of last night.

Ever. It had been a lapse in control. I certainly can't allow it to happen again.

He'd told me to start last night while he went about his business. The nerve of him to think he can order me to do anything. Was he expecting me to head into his bedroom and lie naked, in wait for him? The vision the thought presents has me gripping the sheets.

In disgust at myself, I lift the silk sheets, my nightgown whispering against my skin like his hands had.

A soft knock snaps me out of it, and I tense, praying it’s not him.

I’m not ready to face those dark eyes and that smug, satisfactory smirk.

Not after I screamed his name, my body betraying me on that table.

God.

“Yes?” I say tentatively.

The door opens and a maid slips in. Her steps are light and her eyes are downcast. She’s young, maybe in her late teens, with auburn hair tucked under a cap. Her accent is thick, but I make out her words perfectly.

“Good morning, Signora Mancini,” she says. Her voice is timid. She's carrying a tray with a silver teapot. The title rouses discomfort in me, but I don’t correct her.

“Good morning…” I let my voice trail off.

“I’m Giulia, your maid.”

“Hi, Giulia. Call me Serafina.”

She nods in earnest, but I already know she'll stick to the title.

Her eyes are still downcast. “May I draw your bath, Signora?”

Not one for idle chit chat, I see.

I nod, studying her. She’s nervous, hands trembling slightly as she sets the tray down.

“How long have you worked here?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. I have to make an effort to put her at ease. She blinks, surprised.

“Two years, Signora.”

I tilt my head. “E Enzo? He treats you well?”

Her cheeks flush, and she hesitates. I don't know if it's from my half-baked Italian, because I'm sure my English accent leaks through every time I make an effort, but I manage anyway.

I'd left Italy for America at the young age of twelve. I'd gone to a boarding high school and afterwards, traveled around Europe and North America before entering Yale. It's an excuse for why my Italian isn't perfect, but I try.

I zone in on the girl before me. She still isn't looking at me. And just as I guessed, she isn't comfortable with my Italian, so she refers back to English. “He’s fair,” she says, careful.

I smile at her down-turned head. It's obvious she's hedging. Fair doesn’t mean kind, but it's fine. I don't push it. I tell her to put the tray down and draw my bath. She happily skips to do my bidding.

When she's done, she comes out to inform me. I thank her and leave the rest of the tea to go take my bath. Perhaps, that'd soothe me.

The bath is steaming, scented with rose oil, just how I like it. I'd submitted my preferences to the head maid a week before on the day I visited Enzo and caught him with his whore. I shut down that memory.

Instead, I sink into the bath, letting the heat loosen the knots in my muscles, the delicious soreness in my joints. My mind drifts to the wedding, to Enzo’s kiss, and then last night, his mouth on my pussy, his cock filling me while I shamelessly urged him on.

Ugh. I'm no different from his whores.

I scrub my skin hard, trying to wash away the memory, the way my body craved him—still craves him. He’s my enemy, a Mancini, and I’m here, playing his wife. How fucked up is that?

But last night I wasn’t playing—I was his, and I hate myself for it. God. It's all so messed up. I don't need my judgement clouded. If I'm going to hate him, it has to be completely.

I try to recall what preceded the hot sex session.

It's a haze, as though it had happened eons ago and not just yesterday. What the hell is Enzo doing to me? I remember the introduction to his men, and I focus on the memory. I focus on Matteo’s easy laugh as he'd teased me yesterday evening.

Would he be displeased that Enzo had let himself lose control with me?

I shake my head vigorously and go back to the recollection of memory.

I’d held my own with his men. I don’t think he expected it. Despite that I'd spent most of my time overseas, and I didn't get introduced to the family business earlier, I have a lot of Rossi blood in me. Which means I'm not a pushover. I'm not easily intimidated, no matter what.

The bath water is cooling now and I step out of it. I towel myself dry before proceeding to the room to get dressed. I dress in a black blouse and tailored pants, my dark curls pulled back, ready for business. Whoever said a nice bath is an antidote to every trouble hadn't lied.

My phone buzzes, and I grab it as I settle at a desk.

It’s Aida, calling to keep me up to date about the business I'm in charge of.

Her voice is like a lifeline to an old life, a life I'm itching to get back to.

But I don't dwell on it as I dive into the money laundering operation I run on the side for Papa. We talk numbers, accounts, fronts—millions funneled through shell companies, clean as snow. Aida’s thorough, catching me up on every move.

After we're done, Aida launches into idle chatter. “Fina, you missed chaos,” she says, her tone all drama. I imagine her with her legs crossed at the ankles and her eyes alight as she narrates what I've missed to me. Aida has always had a penchant for drama.

“Tell me,” I urge. Back home, I never indulged in gossip or drama, for that matter. My life's packed full of problems already. But right now, I can't help but indulge. I need to rid myself of the memory of last night.

“Riccardo’s back, and he's stirring shit. He tried to reroute a shipment, but Carlos handled it on Signor Rossi's order.”

My laughter is mocking. “Good. Better to keep him in line.”

It's on the tip of my tongue to ask whether there's any indication from Papa that he misses me.

He'd after all given me out without a thought to my feelings.

It's only karmic that he misses his dear daughter.

But I doubt he does. And even if he misses me, he's not one to show it.

He hasn't called, not that I expect him to.

And I won't call him either. I have his stubborn streak after all.

“You’re missed,” Aida says, her voice softer now.

Unable to help it, I say, “by whom?”

“By everyone. Even Luis. I told you he had a thing for you. He won't shut up about how he thinks it's a mistake that you're married to Enzo Mancini.”

I roll my eyes. “Tell me about it.”

“This place isn’t the same without you, Serafina.”

My throat tightens, but I brush it off. “I’m fine,” I say, voice firm. “I’m keeping Enzo in line and everything is going well.” I shudder at the lie. “Just keep things tight.”

I want to add, “and look after Papa,” but I decide against it and hang up before Aida can launch into more chatter.

The call had grounded me and my head's exactly where it should be. I head downstairs for breakfast, my heels clicking on the spiral staircase. Enzo’s manor unfolds around me, all sharp angles and old wealth.

The halls are lined with dark stone, etched with vines, and tall windows spill light onto floors of black marble.

Paintings hang heavy, faces of dead Mancinis staring down, their eyes cold. The air carries hints of cedar and wax, like a vault sealed tight. It’s not grand or warm—it’s a fortress, built to intimidate, and I feel its weight.