Chapter 7 Serafina

I stare at Don Verrelli like he just told me the moon is made of cheese. The DNA test is still shaking in my hands, and I can’t process what I’m seeing.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” The words explode out of me, raw and furious. “Three years. Three goddamn years of watching your family treat me like garbage, and you knew? You knew who I was this entire time?”

He doesn’t flinch, just sits there behind his throne-like desk as if he’s discussing the weather instead of my entire life being a lie.

“For your safety,” he says simply.

“My safety?” I’m on my feet now, pacing like a caged animal. “Your wife has been psychologically torturing me for three years. Your son is upstairs fucking another woman. What part of this was safe?”

“The part where you’re still breathing.”

That stops me cold. “What?”

“The war never ended, Serafina. It just went underground.”

“What war?”

Don Verrelli opens another folder, slides more photos across the desk. Crime scene photos. Bodies. Blood. “The war that started when Antonio Dorian stole your mother from the Castellanos.”

I sink back into the chair. “Stole her?”

“Maria Castellano was being trafficked by her own family, sold to the highest bidder like a piece of meat.” His voice goes cold. “Antonio found her in a warehouse in Brooklyn, beaten half to death, and he took her.”

The room spins. “He saved her.”

“He saved her. Married her. Loved her. And declared war on every family that had touched her.”

“And that started…?”

“The bloodiest five years in East Coast history. Families choosing sides. Bodies dropping daily. The Castellanos wanted Maria back, wanted to make an example of Antonio. They wanted to prove that no one steals from them.”

I look at the photos—burned-out buildings, newspaper headlines, funeral processions. “How did it end?”

“A car bomb. Meant for Antonio. Maria was driving to the grocery store.” His voice doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. “She died instantly. You were in the backseat. Two years old.”

“But I survived.”

“Barely. Thrown clear when the car flipped, covered in your mother’s blood. Everyone assumed you died with her.”

The pregnancy test in my bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. “So they stopped the war.”

“They stopped the war. No point in fighting over a dead woman and a dead child.”

“But I wasn’t dead.”

“No. You were Antonio’s secret weapon. His ace in the hole. The heir no one knew existed.”

I’m crying now, ugly tears that I can’t stop. “So you all just… let me think I was nobody.”

“You were safer as nobody. The Castellanos are still out there, still powerful, still holding grudges.” He leans forward. “But things have changed.”

“How?”

“Antonio’s dying. Six months, maybe less. And he’s tired of hiding his daughter.”

“His daughter who’s married to your son.”

“His daughter who’s about to be divorced from my son.” Don Verrelli’s smile is sharp as a blade. “You have nothing left in this house, Serafina. Nothing worth staying for.”

The truth of that hits like a physical blow. He’s right. What do I have here? A husband who’s fucking someone else? A mother-in-law who hates me? A sister-in-law who tortures me for sport?

“My family doesn’t deserve to know the truth about you,” he continues. “They don’t deserve you at all.”

“Then why tell me now?”

“Because Antonio’s men are outside. They’ve been waiting for two hours. And I’m tired of watching you suffer for our mistakes.”

I look at the photos scattered across the desk—my real parents, my real family, my real legacy. “If I go with them…”

“You become what you were always meant to be. Dona Serafina Dorian, head of one of the most powerful families on the East Coast.”

Dona. The word sounds foreign and familiar at the same time.

“And if I stay?”

“You sign those papers tomorrow morning and spend the rest of your life as the family’s live-in servant.”

I stand up, legs shaking. “I need to think.”

“No, you don’t.” He stands too, walks around the desk. “You’ve already decided. I can see it in your eyes.”

He’s right. I have decided, have been since the moment I saw that pregnancy test.

“There’s a car waiting by the garden gate,” he says. “Black sedan. They’ll take you to your father.”

I clutch my bag tighter. “What about Matteo?”

“What about him?”

“Won’t he come after me?”

Don Verrelli’s laugh is cold. “Let him try. He has no idea what he’s about to lose.”

Ten minutes later, I’m walking through the garden in the dark, my bag over my shoulder and my heart pounding. The black sedan is exactly where he said it would be.

The driver gets out, opens the door for me. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of face that’s seen things.

“Donna Serafina,” he says, voice respectful. “Your father’s been waiting for you.”