Page 4 of Sworn to the Enemy

Serafina

If looks could kill, the man sitting across the table from me would be a rotting corpse by now. Luis. He’s leaning back in his chair, smirking across the table, eyes gleaming and teeth bared like he thinks he’s got me.

The nerve of him.

The meeting room’s heavy with cigar smoke, dark oak walls closing us in, a single chandelier casting yellowish light over the ten men around me.

My father’s crew, leather jackets and battle scars.

These battle scars tell different stories of various victories, never defeat.

It's stifling, the smoke, and it grates on my nerves.

I should be used to it by now, but by God, the only thing it does is make me irritable.

And now, Luis thinks it is wise to push my buttons further.

“We’ve been at this game longer than you. We know how it works. You should need our suggestions.”

I fold my arms across my chest, pinning him with a deadly glare.

I know it’s because I’m a woman, that’s why they keep underestimating me.

They're all trying to frustrate my efforts, because how dare a woman head them in a meeting, even though I'm only just filling in for my father.

My brother Riccardo would be here instead of me, but he's out on a mission.

My father would rather have me head this meeting, even though he thinks I'm inexperienced, than show how weak he's gotten. His health is deteriorating fast.

“Say that one more time and I’ll have you chew your words.”

“Serafina,” Luis drawls, voice dripping with thick condescension, “you’re playing with fire. That port’s a trap. We stick to the old routes.” The others murmur, some nodding, others eyeing me like I’m a kid.

I lean forward, elbows on the table, my black blazer sharp against my white silk blouse.

I level Luis with a compelling look “Luis,” I say, my voice deceptively low, “you’re scared of a little heat?

That port cuts our time by half. We move faster, we make more.

Or do you prefer losing money?” I see the moment his smirk falters.

Good. But he doesn't go down without a fight.

None of them do. That's why they're my father's associates.

None of them can be pushovers. He opens his mouth again, ready to push.

A snigger cuts through the room. It grabs the men's attention. It's none other than Aida, sitting to my right. She gasps theatrically and covers her mouth when she sees the ripple she's caused, her dark curls bouncing.

And she's still sniggering. She’s my ally. She runs part of my father's money-laundering gig on the side with me. Most of the time, her presence is tolerable, but right now, her presence is off-putting. She must know that that laugh pisses me off.

I shoot her a glare, and she shuts up, eyes dropping quickly to her notes.

The room quiets again, tension so thick I can squeeze the moisture from it. I stand, heels clicking on the hardwood, and point at Luis who still has that condescending look on his face. I don't mince words as I address him.

“You oppose me again, you’re out. I don’t care how long you’ve been here. Cross me openly, and you’re done.” My voice is ice, it brooks no room for argument.

Although they like to underestimate me at every turn and pretend they know better than me, even though I mostly keep out of their hair, they know my bite—vicious, quiet, deadly. Luis shifts, jaw tight, but he stays silent. Brilliant.

I shift my steely gaze to the other men, daring them to further oppose me. They don't rise to my bait, they're not stupid. I nod my head. “Good. We go with my plan. Gather some more men and have it done. Make it quick and efficient. We're done here.”

That's it. Meeting is over. The men file out, not a single cough or grumble. I've made myself clear. I exit the room after them. Aida falls in step with me, our heels echoing through the villa’s halls.

The walls are stone, lined with old paintings of my ancestors, their eyes cold and judging, but they don't scare me.

Red velvet curtains frame tall windows, sunlight barely sneaking in.

The gloom suits the villa. We pass by the paintings and my eyes briefly lift to them.

I wonder if they're proud of me, of the woman I've become.

It's a trifling thought that disappears as quickly as it formed.

“Luis is sweet on you,” Aida teases, nudging me. She's always coming up with ridiculous theories.

“Oh?” My mouth forms.

She spares me a look. “Of course, he does. That’s why he’s been at your throat since you got back from Yale.”

I scoff, rolling my eyes. “I don’t give a shit.

I hate their games and their guts. Always underestimating me and thinking they can get away with it every time.

” Aida grins. I wonder if I've made a joke. She can be a little infuriating, but I’m fond of her anyway.

“You love a challenge, Fina. Maybe that’s why he keeps trying.

” Not willing to continue the conversation, I wave her off.

“Enough.”

She clamps her mouth shut.

We pass the armory. Its entrance door is open, and even without looking in, I can see the racks of guns gleaming behind glass.

We move past the armory to the dining hall where a long mahogany table sits under a gold chandelier.

It's where my father and I often have our meals since I finished from Yale.

The villa’s a maze, built and stocked appropriately for war, its every corner hiding secrets—hiding corpses—one of them being my mom. I shudder as the memory of the morning I'd gotten the call of her death threatens to assail me.

As we step out into the open, one of my father’s most trusted aides, Carlo, appears, his face grim.

“Serafina, your father wants you.”

I nod. “Thank you, Carlo.” I turn to Aida. “Study the notes and correspond with Luis and the team. I want to know if my plan is being carried out immediately. I want no time wasted.”

Aida nods. “Yes, Serafina.” She turns and walks away.

I head for the only place I know my father will be. The orchard. It’s at the back, rows of lemon trees heavy with fruit, their scent pungent in the air. I push a stray curl behind my ear.

True to my prediction, my father’s there. He's walking slowly, his gait lopsided as he leans on a carved ebony cane. His wheelchair is beside him. He'd rather brave a few walks than stay cooped in that wheelchair all day long.

I watch him.

Papa to me, Domenico to his associates, and the patriarch of the Rossi family to outsiders and his rivals.

He is sixty-six, gray hair thinning, face lined deep.

His suit’s a tailored navy blue. In the past , it'd be form-fitted.

Now, it just hangs loose. It's a no-brainer that his sickness is eating him away.

I remember him in his prime—fearless, gunning down rivals, his laugh booming.

His eyes, though, still burn fierce. He's still that man, just caged in a weaker body.

My chest tightens seeing him like this, but I shove it down, striding over. He abhors pity anyway.

“Fina, mia cara,” he says when his gaze lands on me. His voice is warm, a bit shaky—a telltale sign of his cancer—and thick with his Italian accent. That's the first give away. My father's English is usually smooth. It only gets pronounced when something is eating away at him.

He cups my face, kissing my forehead. “Bella ragazza.” I smile, leaning into his touch. I want to rebuke him for ignoring his wheelchair, but he'll just shrug it off, so I keep quiet.

Although my father and I don't always see eye to eye on major issues, he loves me in his own quiet way. He shows it by trying to control every aspect of my life. Of course, I don't let him.

“How're you, Papa?” I ask, entwining his wrinkled hand in mine.

“Oh, fine,” he says shortly, but I catch a nerve twitching in his neck. Something is definitely wrong.

“Papa, what is it?” I ask, stepping back.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You always know, don’t you, tesoro?” I shrug. I always know, because he has a tell.

His face turns serious, and he gestures to a bench under a tree. I herd him to it slowly. Carlo is hovering, but he doesn't interrupt us. We get to the bench and he lowers himself gently on it. I take a seat beside him. The wood creaks as he adjusts himself on it to face me.

“What is it, Papa?” I ask again. He sighs, gripping his cane.

“Fina, we got in trouble. It's your brother.” His voice is low, solemn.

I roll my eyes. Of course it's my brother at it again. “What did he do this time?”

He grimaces. “Riccardo hit a Mancini operation on the docks. It’s war now.”

My blood spikes. The name’s like a blade in my veins. Mancini . That name’s poison, tied to every nightmare I’ve got. My fists clench and my manicured nails bite into my palms.

“Riccardo,” I spit, voice shaking. “He’s so fucking stupid!

” My voice is laced with venom. At thirty-four, ten years older, my brother’s a hot-headed mess, always acting on impulse, trying to prove he’s better than me.

He never hides the fact that he's jealous of me. I honestly don’t understand it.

He mockingly refers to me as the “perfect” one.

It’s pathetic. He is pathetic. And while I understand he hates Enzo, same as me, I don't see why he thinks it's okay to take it upon himself to act on it.

“What was he thinking?” I demand, standing, pacing the dirt path.

My father rubs his temple. “Apparently, he thought he’d cripple them, Fina. Show he’s strong.”

I laugh, it's bitter. “Strong?” Strong and Riccardo don't belong in the same sentence. “He’s reckless. He’ll burn us all.” My heart’s racing, rage boiling over.

The Mancinis would stop at nothing to take everything from us.

They would grab the opportunity to ignite a war, and now Riccardo’s lit the match.

I want to scream, to smash something, but I breathe deep, forcing calm.

It's what my therapist tells me to do every time I feel anger bearing its head. It's stupid, but I indulge.

My father stands, slower now, and puts a hand on my shoulder. “We fix this, Fina. Together.” I nod, my mind racing over the possibilities of how to fix it. My jaw tight as we start walking, lemon trees rustling around us.

“What do we do, Papa?” I ask, voice steadying.

He taps his cane. It's an indication that he's thinking deeply. “We could negotiate. Offer a truce, something big to cool their blood.”

I frown, hating it. “They won’t bite. Enzo’s a dog.”

He nods. “Maybe. Or we hit back. Make it quiet, show we’re not weak.”

I shake my head. “That’s Riccardo’s way. You know it’ll only escalate things.”

We stop by a tree, its branches heavy. “What about a deal?” I say, mind racing. Yes, that could work. “Something they can’t refuse. Money, territory.”

My father's eyes glint as though he's worming his way into buying the idea. “Or alliance. Something permanent.”

I freeze, not liking his tone, or the way it rubs me. But I nod, anyway. “We’d need leverage,” I say. “Something to make Enzo listen.”

His smile is faint, triumphant as he says, “we’ll find it, Fina. We always do.” His tone is final, hinting at some complex mischief.

My stomach twists, but I trust him. Whatever solution he's thinking, it has to be good, because we both know this war’s coming unless we stop it cold.