My burner phone started buzzing inside my purse, which had been kicked a few feet away.

Lola flicked her wrist at Bella. "Get that."

Bella snatched the cheap black phone and handed it to her mistress.

Lola looked at the screen, her lip curling in disgust.

"Caller ID says 'Papa'," she mocked. "Aww. Is the little girl going to cry to her daddy?"

I lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling. The cold from the marble was seeping into my bones, numbing the pain, grounding me.

"Answer it," I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Hollow. Dead.

Lola laughed. "You want me to talk to him? Fine. I’ll tell him to come pick up his trash."

She swiped the screen and hit the speaker button.

"Hello?" Lola screeched into the microphone. "Listen here, old man. Your daughter is a psycho stalker. You need to come get her before I have security throw her in the dumpster where she belongs."

Silence on the other end.

It wasn't a peaceful silence. It was the heavy, suffocating silence of a predator holding its breath before the strike.

Then, a sound.

*CRASH.*

It was the distinct, wet crunch of heavy crystal shattering against a wall.

"Who is this?"

The voice was deep, gravelly, and vibrated with a suppressed violence that made the air in the lobby drop ten degrees.

Lola didn't notice. She was too high on her own power trip.

"I’m the future Mrs. Moretti," she announced. "And you need to teach your daughter some manners. She’s embarrassing herself. Tell her to stay away from Dante, or I’ll make sure she never works in this city again."

"Is she alive?" the voice asked.

It was a simple question, devoid of inflection.

"Barely," Lola laughed. "I had to teach her a lesson. Touched her up a bit. Broke her ugly little necklace."

"You touched her," the voice repeated.

It wasn't a question anymore. It was a confirmation of a death sentence.

"Yeah, I slapped her. What are you going to do about it, grandpa? Sue me?"

"Put her on the phone," the voice commanded.

Lola rolled her eyes but held the phone down toward my face, like she was offering a treat to a dog.

"Daddy wants to say bye-bye."

I looked at the black plastic.

"Papa," I whispered.

"Seraphina," my father said. His voice cracked, just a fraction. "Did they take the necklace?"

"Yes," I said. "They crushed it."

A long exhale on the other end. It sounded like a dragon waking up.

"The pact is void," my father said. "Burn them."

Something sparked in my chest, melting the ice.

"Burn them all," I agreed.

"I am three minutes away," he said. "Stay down. The sky is about to fall."

The line went dead.

Lola scoffed and threw the phone onto the floor, smashing it next to the remains of my mother’s locket.

"Drama queen," she muttered. "Like father, like daughter."

I closed my eyes and listened.

Far off in the distance, over the hum of the city traffic, I heard a rhythmic thumping sound.

*Thwup. Thwup. Thwup.*

It was getting louder, a beating heart of steel closing in.

The distant hum of the city was drowned out by the aggressive purr of the motorcade.

Through the glass doors, four black Rolls Royces pulled up to the curb with military precision. The doors opened in unison.

Dante stepped out of the lead car.

I had to admit, he looked impeccable. He was wearing a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, tailored to hide his flaws and accentuate his power. His hair was slicked back. He looked every inch the Mafia Prince he pretended to be.

He didn't look like a man who was cheating. He looked like a conqueror surveying his new kingdom.

Bodyguards flanked him, shoving aside the few paparazzi who had gathered.

Lola let out a squeal of delight that pierced the air. She abandoned me on the floor and ran toward the doors.

"Dante! Baby!"

Dante caught her as she threw herself into his arms. He spun her around, laughing. It was a picture-perfect moment. The King and his Queen.

He kissed her, deep and showy, making sure the cameras caught the angle.

"There she is," Dante announced, his voice booming as he walked into the lobby, Lola hanging off his arm like an expensive bauble. "My Old Lady. The woman who tames the beast."

The staff, who had been watching me get beaten moments ago, exchanged nervous glances before breaking into applause.

"Congratulations, Mr. Moretti!"

"You look beautiful, Lola!"

Dante beamed, soaking in the adoration. He raised a hand, silencing them.

"Tonight is a celebration," he declared. "I’m authorizing a five-thousand-dollar bonus for every employee in the building. Drinks are on me!"

A raucous cheer went up. They loved him. He was generous. He was charming.

He was a fraud.

I slowly dragged myself up to a sitting position. My body ached with every breath. My lip was definitely swollen, throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

I began to pick up the pieces of the locket. One shard of silver. One bent hinge. A fragment of the photo—just my mother’s eye, staring up at me from the cold marble.

"Look at her," Lola sneered, pointing a finger at me. She was safe in Dante's arms now. "She’s still picking up trash."

Dante frowned. He followed her finger.

He saw a woman on the floor, hair disheveled, bleeding, surrounded by broken glass.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to place the inconvenience.

Then, recognition struck him like a physical blow.

His tan face drained of all color. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He dropped his arm from Lola’s waist as if she had suddenly caught fire.

"Seraphina?" he whispered.

The lobby went quiet again. The staff looked back and forth between the glowing couple and the broken woman on the floor.

I stood up.

I swayed slightly, but I locked my knees. I wiped the blood from my lip with the back of my hand and met his gaze.

"Hello, Dante," I said.

"What... what are you doing here?" he stammered. Panic was starting to seep through his composure. "You're supposed to be... I thought you were at home."

"I was," I said. "Then I saw the billboard."

Dante flinched.

"Look, Seraphina, I can explain," he started, taking a step toward me, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "It's just business. It's a strategy. You know how the families are."

"She attacked me!" Lola interjected, grabbing Dante’s arm again, her nails digging into his suit. "She came in here acting crazy! She tried to hurt me, Dante! Look at what she did!"

Lola had absolutely no injuries, but she wailed like a grieving widow.

Dante looked at Lola, then back at me. He saw the blood on my face. He saw the torn blazer.

He knew exactly what had happened.

And for a second, I saw the calculation in his eyes. He weighed me—the useful, boring secretary—against Lola, the trophy he wanted to show off.

He made his choice.

He straightened his spine and put on his mask of arrogance.

"Seraphina," he said, his voice cold. "You shouldn't have come here. You're drunk. You're embarrassing yourself."

I smiled.

It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a woman who had just realized she was holding the detonator.

"Am I?" I asked.

"Yes," Dante said dismissively. "Go home. We'll talk about your severance package in the morning."

The thumping noise outside was deafening now. The glass walls of the lobby began to vibrate violently.

Shadows fell over the plaza outside as a massive black military helicopter descended right onto the street, blocking traffic and blotting out the sun.

The side of the helicopter bore a crest. A golden lion holding a bleeding heart.

The Vitiello crest.

Dante turned to look. His knees actually knocked together.

"Dante," I said softly, my voice cutting through the roar of the rotors. "I don't think I need a severance package."

The doors of the lobby were blown open by the force of the landing.

My father walked in. He wasn't alone. He was flanked by ten soldiers carrying assault rifles at the ready.

But I only saw him.

Don Salvatore Vitiello stopped in the center of the room. He looked at Dante. He looked at Lola.

Then he looked at me. He saw the blood.

"Who touched her?" he asked.

His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a grave being dug.

"Do you know the penalty for striking a Vitiello?" he asked Dante.

Dante fell to his knees.

Seraphina Vitiello POV:

Dante was on his knees, but denial is a powerful drug, and he was currently overdosing on it.

His gaze traveled from the polished black tips of my father’s shoes to the barrel of the assault rifle leveled at his chest by the soldier on his left.

Then, finally, he looked at me.

His face was the color of wet ash.

"Vitiello?" he whispered. The name sat on his tongue like a piece of glass he was afraid to swallow. "No. No, that’s impossible. You’re just Seraphina. You’re... you’re from Connecticut. You drive a Honda."

Lola didn't understand. She was a tourist in a world built on bloodlines, and she had just stepped on a landmine.

"Who cares who her daddy is?" Lola shrieked, breaking the heavy silence. She stomped her foot, her white dress swirling around her legs like a petulant child's. "Dante, get up! Why are you kneeling? Look at her! She’s a mess. She’s trying to ruin our night!"

Behind the reception desk, the staff pressed themselves against the back wall.

They knew. They had heard the name *Vitiello* and realized that the air in the room had just turned into poison gas.

But Dante stood up.

He did it slowly, his eyes darting between my father and me. He saw that my father hadn't given the order to fire yet. He fatally mistook my father’s discipline for hesitation.

He smoothed his tuxedo jacket. He tried to find his smile, but it looked like a painful grimace.

"This is a misunderstanding," Dante said, his voice trembling before finding its volume. He looked at the staff, trying to salvage his image. "Everyone, calm down. Seraphina is... she’s emotional. We have a history."

"A history?" I asked.

My voice was quiet, but in the dead silence of the lobby, it sounded like a whip crack.

"Is that what you call seven years of my life, Dante? History?"

"You’re obsessed!" Lola yelled. She lunged at me again, her hand raised, her nails aiming for my eyes.

My father’s hand drifted toward the inside of his jacket.

But Dante moved faster.

He caught Lola’s wrist mid-air.

Lola gasped, freezing. She looked at him, betrayed. "Baby? Let me go! I’m going to teach this bitch a lesson!"

"Shut up, Lola," Dante hissed.

He didn't let go of her wrist. Instead, he shoved her back, hard enough that she stumbled in her expensive heels.

He turned to me. He was sweating now, beads of perspiration ruining the makeup he wore for the cameras.

"Seraphina, look," he said, holding his hands up in surrender. "I know you're hurt. But let's be adults. You were... you were an arrangement. A business deal. You know that."

The words hung in the air.

"An arrangement," I repeated.

"Yes," Dante said, gaining confidence because no one had shot him yet. "My father wanted the connection to the Vitiellos. I did what I had to do. But we both know... men like me have needs. You were always so... stiff. So cold. So professional."

He gestured to Lola, who was rubbing her wrist, looking confused.

"Lola is fiery," Dante said. "She fits the image. You were great for the books, Seraphina. You were a fantastic secretary. But you were never going to be the Queen of New York."

I heard a gasp from the reception desk.

The staff were staring at me with wide eyes. The realization was rippling through them—I wasn't the stalker. I was the fiancée. I was the foundation upon which he had built his plastic throne.

I smiled. It tasted like copper and iron.

"Be smart, Seraphina," Dante said, his arrogance bleeding back into his tone as he straightened his tie. "Don't make a scene in front of these guys. Accept your place."