Serena POV
I stared at him, but my mind had unmoored itself, drifting back to a night two years ago.
We were sitting in a dark, private theater, the entire cavernous venue rented for our date. Halfway through the film, his phone vibrated. Elena was having a trivial dispute with a neighbor.
Without a word, Dominic had abandoned me in that empty theater.
Sitting alone in the dark that night, I had realized a simple, devastating truth: it is not difficult to surrender something that was never truly yours to begin with.
Now, the memory receded, and I looked at the man before me.
"You can give her the car," I said calmly.
Dominic paused, the tension in his broad shoulders easing by a fraction.
"Whatever the Don commands, I obey," I added. My voice was flat and without echo.
Dominic stepped forward and cupped my cheek. His thumb brushed over my cheekbone—a gesture of ownership, not affection.
"Good girl," he murmured. "You understand your place. Elena is foolish, but it is my sworn duty to protect her. It is necessary."
I did not lean into his touch. I simply stared at his chest.
It was not about understanding Omertà. I just no longer cared.
"Elena has invited us to dine at the new Family-controlled restaurant," Dominic informed me. He dropped his hand and turned toward the door. "Be ready. We leave in ten minutes."
The restaurant was exclusive, its dimly lit interior heavy with the scent of expensive cigars and rich food.
I despised the smell. But I hated the cloying gardenia perfume Elena wore even more, a constant, sweet attempt to mask the faintly metallic scent of the underworld that clung to all of us.
We sat at a private, velvet-lined booth. Elena sat across from us, smiling brightly, her perfume a suffocating presence in the narrow space.
When the waiter arrived, Dominic opened his mouth, intending to order my usual bland meal.
"I will have the spicy seafood arrabbiata," I interrupted smoothly. "And a classic Aperol Spritz. We will not be sharing."
Dominic frowned, the sharp lines of his face hardening.
"Why are you ordering that?" he questioned, his tone laced with confusion. "You do not eat spice."
"I have always loved it," I replied evenly, meeting his gaze. "You never noticed."
Dominic's jaw tightened, but he did not argue in front of his men.
"I will have a cold, fruity cocktail to match Serena!" Elena chimed in, clapping her hands together like a child.
Dominic's face darkened. He turned a furious glare on Elena.
"Absolutely not," he reprimanded sharply. "You know your health is fragile. You cannot handle ice."
He looked up at the waiter and dismissed her request with a wave. "Bring her a warm chamomile tea."
Instead of shrinking, Elena giggled. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands.
"With the Don protecting me, I am not afraid of a little stomach pain," she flirted brazenly.
I watched the exchange in silence. I felt nothing, only a strange, hollow detachment.
A memory flickered—three years ago, a severe fever. Dominic had stayed awake for two days, meticulously wiping my forehead, forcing me to drink water. He had shown a raw, desperate vulnerability only I was allowed to witness.
But ever since Elena had fully inserted herself into our lives, his fierce protective instincts had shifted entirely to her.
I sat there, utterly muted, an expendable Associate watching the Boss and his precious ward engage in their twisted banter. I did not belong at this table.
A moment later, a loyal Soldier approached our booth. He carried a tall, vintage crystal glass filled with a dark, blood-red liquid. Two black straws rested inside.
"Compliments of the house," the Soldier announced, bowing his head. "The Boss and Queen anniversary drink. To celebrate the establishment's first successful year."
The soldier's words hung in the air. Boss and Queen. He was looking at Dominic and Elena when he said it—not at me. I was sitting right there, the Don's woman of five years, and a loyal soldier had just addressed another woman as his Queen. And Dominic did not correct him. He did not even seem to notice. The message was clear: even his men knew who truly held the throne.
