Shackled Hearts

Chapter Seven

Serafina

The roar of Dante’s car bled into the night until it was swallowed by the hum of traffic and distant city noise. Still, my pulse didn’t settle. It beat fast and hard, like I’d just sprinted through the city instead of standing stock-still under a streetlight, trying to catch my breath.

Game on, bella.

The words lingered in the air, clinging to my skin like smoke, slick with arrogance. I hated how they wormed their way under my ribs, hated even more that my stomach tightened instead of recoiling.

“Earth to Sera.” Amelia’s voice cut through, sharp as glass. She stood with arms folded, curls glowing faintly in the lamp’s halo, her expression equal parts amused and annoyed. “You want to explain why Dante Romano just hunted us down like a wolf on the prowl?”

I shoved a hand through my hair, fingers trembling. “Because Matteo saw us. He told Dante, and now—” My voice cracked into a hiss. “Now we’re screwed.”

Amelia arched a brow, smirk already tugging at her mouth. “Correction: we’ve got exactly what we wanted. Pictures. Proof.

Leverage.” She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “You’re the one acting like you were caught with your hand up Dante’s thigh.”

“Don’t,” I snapped.

“Don’t what? Point out the obvious? That you still feel something for him?”

The words hit like a slap.

Memories unspooled too easily. Sixteen, my head spinning from stolen champagne and the thrill of sneaking out. Dante’s hands at my waist as he pulled me into a dark corner, his laugh low and warm in my ear. His mouth brushing promises against my skin, reckless vows that felt like forever.

Then Eva. Her voice floating down the hallway days later, smug and poisonous. He was mine last night. I hadn’t asked if it was true. I hadn’t waited for him to deny it. I’d walked away, armor of pride strapped on tight. And he hadn’t come after me.

The echo of it twisted in my chest now, sharp as glass.

“Whatever I felt for him burned out years ago,” I muttered. My heels snapped against the pavement as I stalked toward Amelia’s town house, needing walls around me before my face betrayed too much.

“Funny,” she called, following, “because he just looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive.”

Heat scorched my cheeks before I could stop it. I threw my clutch onto the console inside the door and turned away, praying the dim glow didn’t give me away. “He looks at everyone like that.”

“Not like that,” Amelia said, padding into the living room. She tossed herself onto the couch, curls bouncing, eyes sharp despite her casual sprawl.

Frustration snapped through me. “He’s dangerous. You saw his face—he’s not going to let this slide. If we’re not careful, he’ll flip everything back on us.”

“Then we don’t let him.” She tossed her phone onto the coffee table, her smirk returning. “We get ahead of him. Old Romano sees those photos before Dante has time to bury them.”

I lowered myself into a chair, hands trembling against my knees. Curling them into fists, I dug nails into my palms until the sting steadied me.

This was supposed to be simple. Get proof. Make it messy. Blow up the engagement.

But nothing about Dante Romano was simple. Not then. Not now.

Amelia leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees. “So what’s the move? Burner email? Anonymous drop? I’ve got a VPN that can make it look like we’re sending from Moscow if you want.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “You’ve thought about this too much.”

“Please. I’ve been training for chaos since Carmela’s disaster of a wedding.”

I shook my head, half-smiling despite myself. The ease with which Amelia treated all this—like sabotage was just another family sport—was both infuriating and reassuring.

“Old Romano cares about appearances,” I said finally. “He sees his heir tangled with Eva while planning an engagement? He’ll choke on the optics. Dante can’t charm his way out of that.”

Amelia’s grin sharpened. “So we push the right domino and watch it fall.”

Silence stretched between us, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the creak of the old townhouse settling. My chest still buzzed with leftover adrenaline, images of the night looping in my head: Eva’s hand sliding up Dante’s thigh, Matteo’s knowing smirk, Dante’s mocking words as he drove away.

He wouldn’t let this go. He never did. And this time, I couldn’t afford to falter.

I turned toward the window. The glass reflected me back—dark hair tumbling over my shoulders, chin lifted, eyes burning like fire. I didn’t look like prey. I looked like someone ready to bare her teeth.

Fine.

If Dante wanted a game, I’d play. I’d play harder. Smarter. Colder.

But I would not lose.

Not again. Not to him.