Seraphina Caruso POV
The suite reeked of champagne and sex.
Dante was passed out on the velvet sofa, his shirt torn open, his face slack and stupid in a drunken stupor.
Isabella stood by the window, wearing nothing but a sheer silk robe and holding a glass of wine. She whirled around at the sound of the door crashing open.
Her smile was wide, expectant. She likely thought it was room service. Or perhaps she arrogantly assumed I had come alone to beg.
That smile vanished the instant she saw Rocco.
"Rocco?" she choked out.
The glass slipped from her fingers.
It hit the floor, shattering. Red wine splashed across the white carpet like a spray of arterial blood.
I stepped out from behind Rocco's massive frame, my phone already raised, the camera recording.
"Smile for the tragic love story," I said coldly.
Isabella scrambled backward, trying to pull the robe closed, but it was too late. Rocco had seen everything.
Dante groaned on the couch, stirring. "Wha... what's the noise?"
He sat up, blinking blearily. He saw me first.
"Seraphina?" He tried to summon his charming smile, but it looked grotesque. "Baby, I told you to go home..."
Then, he saw Rocco.
The color drained from his face so fast I thought he might faint.
"Rocco," Dante stammered, trying to stand up but stumbling back onto the cushions. "Brother. It's not... we were just talking strategy."
"Strategy," Rocco repeated. His voice was terrifyingly calm. He stepped over the broken glass with deliberate indifference.
"Is that what we call it now?"
I walked past Rocco. I walked right up to Isabella.
She was trembling, pressed against the window glass. "Seraphina, please. Don't record this."
"You wanted an audience, Isabella," I said softly.
I raised my hand and slapped her.
It wasn't a gentle slap. It was a crack that echoed like a gunshot through the suite. Her head snapped to the side. A red handprint blossomed on her perfect, pale cheek.
"That's for the text," I said.
Dante lunged forward. "Don't touch her!"
Rocco backhanded Dante without even looking at him.
Dante flew backward over the coffee table, crashing onto the floor. He groaned, clutching his jaw.
I turned to Dante. He was looking up at me, blood trickling from his lip.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the engagement ring. The replica. The lie.
"Here," I said.
I tossed it at him. It bounced off his chest with a hollow clink.
"You can pawn it to pay for your divorce lawyers."
"Seraphina," Dante wheezed. "You're making a mistake. You need me."
I laughed. It was a genuine, dark laugh.
"I built you, Dante. And now, I'm going to watch you crumble."
I walked over to where he lay. I looked down at him with pure disgust.
I pulled my leg back and kicked him in the ribs. Hard.
He curled into a ball, gasping for air.
"That," I said, "is for the seven years."
Rocco stood over Isabella now. He wasn't touching her. He was just looking at her like she was something he had scraped off his boot.
"The engagement is off," Rocco said. "Tell your father the Moretti family withdraws its protection. Tonight."
Isabella began to sob—ugly, heaving sounds. "Rocco, no! My father will kill me!"
"He should," Rocco said.
He turned to me. There was a strange look in his eyes. Respect.
"Are we done?" he asked.
"I am," I said. "You do whatever you want with the trash."
I turned on my heel and walked out of the suite.
I didn't run. I didn't flee. I strode down the hallway, my boots thudding rhythmically on the carpet.
Behind me, the door was still open. I heard Dante shouting something pathetic. Then, I heard the sound of furniture being smashed.
I pressed the elevator button.
The doors slid open. I stepped into the mirrored box.
I caught my reflection. My hair was sleek, my eyes were bright, and for the first time in my life, I didn't look like a shadow.
I looked like a threat.
The doors slid shut, sealing me in silence.
Act One was over.
Now, the war began.
