Chapter 10
Serena's POV
Three months after the wedding, life in Rome had settled into something I never expected: happiness.
Real, quiet, steady happiness.
Dante and I had found our rhythm. Mornings were coffee in the garden. Afternoons were work — me managing my father's expanding European operations, him handling Valenti affairs with the same calm precision he applied to everything.
Evenings were ours.
Sometimes we'd cook together, badly, laughing over burnt risotto. Sometimes we'd sit in his study in comfortable silence, him reading contracts while I reviewed projections, our feet touching under his desk.
He never pushed. Never assumed. Every touch was offered, not taken.
And slowly, then all at once, I fell in love with him.
Not because he was powerful. Not because he'd saved me from humiliation. But because of the small things — the way he remembered every preference I mentioned once. The way he asked about my day and actually listened. The way he looked at me across a crowded room and made me feel like the only person in it.
"You're staring," Dante said one evening, catching me watching him over dinner.
"Am I not allowed to stare at my own husband?"
His mouth curved — that devastating half-smile. "You're allowed to do anything you want."
I reached across the table and took his hand. "I love you."
It was the first time I'd said it. Three months of marriage, and I'd held those words back — waiting until they were true, until they were mine to give freely.
Dante went very still. Then he lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles, eyes never leaving mine.
"I've loved you for two years, Serena," he said quietly. "But hearing you say it back is worth every second of waiting."
...
The peace shattered on a Tuesday morning.
I was reviewing contracts at my home office when my father's call came in — his voice tight, controlled, the way it only got when something was seriously wrong.
"Serena. Vivienne resurfaced."
I set down my pen. "Where?"
"Here. In Rome. She's been meeting with the Corsetti family."
The Corsettis — the Valenti family's oldest rivals. The same family responsible for Dante's mother's death.
My blood ran cold.
"She's selling information," Papa continued. "About the Valentis. About you. Routes, schedules, security details."
"How would she even have—" I stopped. Of course. During those months she lived in my home, she'd had access to everything. My father's study. My files. My calendar.
She'd been gathering intelligence the entire time she was playing the helpless stepsister.
"Papa," I said, "does Dante know?"
"I'm calling you first. But Serena — if the Corsettis know your movements, you're in danger. Both of you."
I stood. "I'll tell Dante. We'll handle it."
"Be careful, figlia." His voice softened. "I can't lose you."
"You won't," I promised.
I found Dante in his study, already on the phone — speaking in rapid Italian, his expression carved from stone.
He saw me in the doorway and ended the call.
"You know," I said.
"My men just confirmed it." He crossed the room in three strides, hands finding my shoulders. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. But Dante — she had months of access to my life. Whatever she's selling the Corsettis, it's detailed."
His jaw tightened. "Then we change everything. Routes, schedules, safe houses — all of it, effective immediately."
"And Vivienne?" I asked.
Something dark flickered in Dante's eyes — the kind of darkness I'd only glimpsed before. The part of him that belonged to this world entirely.
"I'll find her," he said. "And when I do, she'll answer for what she's done."
It wasn't a threat. It was a certainty.
And for the first time, I understood fully what Vivienne had tried to warn me about — not because Dante was dangerous to me, but because he was terrifying when someone threatened what was his.
"Together," I said, gripping his arms. "We handle this together."
He studied my face. Then nodded once. "Together."
Three months after the wedding, life in Rome had settled into something I never expected: happiness.
Real, quiet, steady happiness.
Dante and I had found our rhythm. Mornings were coffee in the garden. Afternoons were work — me managing my father's expanding European operations, him handling Valenti affairs with the same calm precision he applied to everything.
Evenings were ours.
Sometimes we'd cook together, badly, laughing over burnt risotto. Sometimes we'd sit in his study in comfortable silence, him reading contracts while I reviewed projections, our feet touching under his desk.
He never pushed. Never assumed. Every touch was offered, not taken.
And slowly, then all at once, I fell in love with him.
Not because he was powerful. Not because he'd saved me from humiliation. But because of the small things — the way he remembered every preference I mentioned once. The way he asked about my day and actually listened. The way he looked at me across a crowded room and made me feel like the only person in it.
"You're staring," Dante said one evening, catching me watching him over dinner.
"Am I not allowed to stare at my own husband?"
His mouth curved — that devastating half-smile. "You're allowed to do anything you want."
I reached across the table and took his hand. "I love you."
It was the first time I'd said it. Three months of marriage, and I'd held those words back — waiting until they were true, until they were mine to give freely.
Dante went very still. Then he lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles, eyes never leaving mine.
"I've loved you for two years, Serena," he said quietly. "But hearing you say it back is worth every second of waiting."
...
The peace shattered on a Tuesday morning.
I was reviewing contracts at my home office when my father's call came in — his voice tight, controlled, the way it only got when something was seriously wrong.
"Serena. Vivienne resurfaced."
I set down my pen. "Where?"
"Here. In Rome. She's been meeting with the Corsetti family."
The Corsettis — the Valenti family's oldest rivals. The same family responsible for Dante's mother's death.
My blood ran cold.
"She's selling information," Papa continued. "About the Valentis. About you. Routes, schedules, security details."
"How would she even have—" I stopped. Of course. During those months she lived in my home, she'd had access to everything. My father's study. My files. My calendar.
She'd been gathering intelligence the entire time she was playing the helpless stepsister.
"Papa," I said, "does Dante know?"
"I'm calling you first. But Serena — if the Corsettis know your movements, you're in danger. Both of you."
I stood. "I'll tell Dante. We'll handle it."
"Be careful, figlia." His voice softened. "I can't lose you."
"You won't," I promised.
I found Dante in his study, already on the phone — speaking in rapid Italian, his expression carved from stone.
He saw me in the doorway and ended the call.
"You know," I said.
"My men just confirmed it." He crossed the room in three strides, hands finding my shoulders. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. But Dante — she had months of access to my life. Whatever she's selling the Corsettis, it's detailed."
His jaw tightened. "Then we change everything. Routes, schedules, safe houses — all of it, effective immediately."
"And Vivienne?" I asked.
Something dark flickered in Dante's eyes — the kind of darkness I'd only glimpsed before. The part of him that belonged to this world entirely.
"I'll find her," he said. "And when I do, she'll answer for what she's done."
It wasn't a threat. It was a certainty.
And for the first time, I understood fully what Vivienne had tried to warn me about — not because Dante was dangerous to me, but because he was terrifying when someone threatened what was his.
"Together," I said, gripping his arms. "We handle this together."
He studied my face. Then nodded once. "Together."