Serafina
The museum was all light and glass and eyes. Crystal chandeliers spilled fire across marble, gilding every smile, every polished step. Waiters glided like shadows with trays of champagne and canapés too delicate to touch. The quartet tucked beneath the grand staircase played strings that curled around the edges of the room—sweet, precise, and merciless.
Dante’s hand stayed at the small of my back, his touch steady, commanding, a brand as much as a guide. Nico ghosted behind him, silent, scanning. Matteo walked at my other side, his tux immaculate, his mouth tilted into that knife-edged smirk that made people uncertain if they were being charmed or threatened.
“Breathe,” Dante murmured, low enough for only me. “And stay close.”
“Depends,” I said, my lips barely moving. “Are
