Serafina
The Romano dining room glittered like a stage—chandeliers blazing over polished mahogany, crystal lined like soldiers, silver bright enough to blind. The table stretched long: Romanos on one side, Carusos on the other. Laughter floated and died fast, the brittle kind that covers knives.
Servants moved without a sound, topping off glasses, clearing plates no one touched.
Old Romano stood first. His suit was perfect, his smile practiced. He raised his glass and the room obeyed. “To family,” he said, voice smooth as stone. “To alliances that keep us strong. To a future secured by loyalty.”
Crystal chimed. The toast landed like a lock snapping shut.
Under the table, Amelia nudged my knee. A tiny tilt of her chin: now.
My clutch felt heavier than it was. The envelope insid
