Chapter 6 Serafina
Following Don Verrelli down the hallway feels like walking to my own execution. In three years, I’ve never been invited into his private office. Hell, I didn’t even know where it was until now.
The door is solid mahogany, carved with intricate patterns that probably cost more than most people’s cars. When he opens it, I’m hit with the scent of aged leather, expensive whiskey, and something else—power. Pure, undiluted power.
“Jesus,” I breathe, stepping inside.
The room is a masterpiece of intimidation. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, filled with volumes that look older than sin. A massive fireplace dominates one wall, its mantel decorated with artifacts that definitely aren’t for show—a ceremonial dagger, what looks like a piece of ancient armor, and photographs of men in suits who probably ordered more hits than pizza.
But it’s the desk that makes me stop cold. It’s not just furniture—it’s a throne. Dark wood, carved with symbols I don’t recognize, sitting in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the estate like a king surveying his domain.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to one of the leather chairs facing the desk.
I sit, clutching my bag like a lifeline. “This is quite the setup you’ve got here.”
“Twenty-three years I’ve been conducting business in this room,” he says, settling behind the desk. “Wars have been started here. Ended here. Lives have been decided.”
“Comforting.”
His laugh is dry. “You’re braver than I expected. Most people who sit in that chair are trembling by now.”
“Maybe I’m too stupid to be scared.”
“Or maybe you’re exactly who I thought you were.”
There’s something in his tone that makes my stomach clench. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He opens a drawer, pulls out a manila folder thick with documents. “Tell me, Serafina, what do you know about your parents? The Morettis?”
“What kind of question is that? They’re my parents. Dad’s a plumber, Mom stayed home until I got married. They needed the money from my marriage to pay off their debts, so—” I stop. “Why are you asking me this?”
“Because they lied to you.”
The words hit like ice water. “What?”
“The Morettis aren’t your parents, Serafina. They never were.”
I laugh—actually laugh—because this is insane. “That’s ridiculous. Of course they’re my parents. I look exactly like my mom, everyone always said—”
“You look like your real mother.” He slides a photograph across the desk. “Maria Dorian.”
I stare at the photo. A woman with dark hair and my exact eyes, holding a baby. The resemblance is… damn. It’s undeniable.
“This is some kind of sick joke.”
“The Morettis were paid to raise you. Quite well, actually. That plumbing business your ‘father’ ran? Funded by the Dorian family for twenty-one years.”
My hands start shaking. “That’s impossible.”
“When you turned twenty-one, the payments stopped. That’s when Frank Moretti started accumulating debts. Real ones. Gambling, mostly. Bad investments. By the time you were twenty-two, he owed some very dangerous people a lot of money.”
“No.”
“That’s when I approached him with an offer: marriage to my son in exchange for clearing his debts and a substantial payment.”
The room spins. “You’re saying… you’re saying my dad sold me?”
“I’m saying Frank Moretti was a desperate man who saw an opportunity to solve his problems and secure his future.” Don Verrelli’s voice is matter-of-fact, like he’s discussing a business transaction. “Which, technically, is exactly what it was.”
“This is insane. You’re insane.”
“You were never supposed to find out. You were supposed to live your life as Serafina Moretti, marry my son, produce heirs, and die never knowing the truth.”
“Then why are you telling me now?”
He slides another photo across the desk. A man in his fifties, dark hair, sharp eyes that look exactly like mine in the mirror.
“Because Antonio Dorian is dying. And he wants his daughter back.”
“I don’t have a father named Antonio. My father is Frank, and he’s a plumber from Queens who—”
“Who sold you to pay off his gambling debts.” Don Verrelli’s voice cuts through my denial like a blade. “Frank Moretti raised you, yes. Fed you, clothed you, sent you to school. But he’s not your father.”
I stare at the photo of this stranger. “This man is?”
“Antonio Dorian. Head of one of the most powerful families on the East Coast. Your real father.”
“My real father is probably watching TV in his La-Z-Boy right now, drinking beer and complaining about the Yankees.”
“Your real father has been looking out for you for twenty-three years.”
The words hit me like physical blows. “Looking out for me?”
“You were taken during a family war when you were two years old. We made it look like you were killed in the crossfire. Antonio’s been pretending to grieve a dead daughter while you grew up in Queens thinking you were Italian-American middle class.”
“This is…” I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t process what he’s telling me.
“You’re not American, Serafina. You’re not middle class. And you’re sure as hell not Frank Moretti’s daughter.”
“But I love him.” The words come out strangled. “He walked me down the aisle. He taught me to ride a bike. He—”
“He did his job. And he was paid well for it.”
“Stop.” I’m crying now, ugly tears that I can’t control. “Just stop.”
“Antonio is dying, Serafina. Cancer. Six months, maybe less. He wants to see his daughter before he goes.”
“I’m not his daughter. I’m nobody’s daughter. I’m just… I’m just some fucking pawn in everyone else’s game.”
“No.” His voice goes soft for the first time. “You’re the heir to the Dorian empire. You’re blood royalty who’s been living as a commoner. You’re the most powerful woman in this room, and you don’t even know it.”
I look at the photos scattered across the desk—this life I never knew existed, these people who claim me as theirs.
“How do I know any of this is true?”
“Because your father and I are the masterminds behind this. We would do anything to protect you; you are his pride and joy. And-,” He reaches into his jacket, “here’s a DNA test.”
The paper shakes in my hands as I read it.
99.7% probability of paternal relationship between Serafina Moretti and Antonio Dorian.