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."
