SERAFINA
Rain lashes the penthouse windows, turning Manhattan into a blur of light and shadow. I stand motionless, arms crossed, watching the storm when I hear Lorenzo’s footsteps behind me—slow, heavy, controlled.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“We’re always talking,” I reply without turning. “Or fighting. I can’t tell which anymore.”
“Serafina. Turn around.”
Something in his voice makes me obey.
He stands in the doorway, suit wrinkled, tie loose, hair disordered. But it’s his eyes that stop me. Not ice tonight—fire.
My hand drifts toward the knife hidden beneath my dress. He notices immediately.
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Then why do you look ready to burn the world down?”
“Because I might.” He steps closer. “I found something in my father’s office.”
My pulse quickens. “You bro
