Serafina
The doorbell rang at exactly nine. Not a minute early, not a minute late.
When I opened it, two assistants from Carmela’s atelier stood on the step with glossy boxes and a long garment bag balanced between them. One offered a perfect smile.
“Delivery for Ms Caruso. Mr. Romano instructed us—nine sharp.”
Of course he did.
I stepped aside. They crossed the hall like a bridal procession and set everything on the chaise in my room. “Signature here,” the taller one said, tapping a tablet. I signed. They vanished as cleanly as they’d arrived.
Amelia padded in wearing a robe and a wicked grin, coffee mug in hand. “What did your wolf drop off now?”
“His orders,” I said, untying the satin ribbon. Tissue paper sighed apart.
Inside was not just a dress. It was a full command.
