Married To The Mafia Devil

Chapter 6: Cold Hands, Cold Heart

SERAFINA

I arrive twenty minutes early because late means vulnerable, and I haven't survived this long by being careless.

The restaurant is one of those places that doesn't advertise and doesn't need to. The kind where reservations are made through encrypted channels and the staff knows better than to remember faces. Our private room is on the third floor, accessible only by a key-operated elevator that probably costs more than most people's houses.

I choose the seat facing the door. Always face the door.

The room is decorated in shades of cream and gold, all soft edges and warm lighting designed to make people feel comfortable. Safe. I feel neither. My mother's diamond necklace sits heavy against my collarbone—I wore it deliberately, a reminder of what was taken from me. What *he* helped take from me.

I check my weapon. The small pistol is strapped to my inner thigh, hidden beneath the silk of my black dress. The knife is in my clutch. The poison ring on my right hand, disguised as an antique heirloom. I'm not stupid enough to meet Lorenzo Moretti unarmed.

The elevator chimes.

My spine straightens automatically, but I keep my hands relaxed on the table. I learned years ago that tension shows in the smallest movements—a clenched jaw, tight shoulders, fingers that curl too quickly into fists. Madame Chen used to rap my knuckles with a bamboo stick whenever I let my emotions leak through my body.

"Control is survival," she'd say. "Show them nothing."

The door opens.

And there he is.

Lorenzo Moretti walks in like he owns not just the room but the entire building, probably because he does. He's taller than I expected—six-three, maybe more—with shoulders broad enough to fill the doorway. Dark hair, perfectly styled. Suit that costs more than a car. But it's his eyes that catch me.

Gray. Cold. Empty.

Like looking into a frozen lake and knowing something predatory swims beneath.

He's devastating. The kind of handsome that makes smart women stupid, that makes people forget he's built an empire on blood and fear. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and a mouth that looks like it rarely smiles. There's a thin scar cutting through his left eyebrow—barely visible, but I notice it because I'm trained to notice everything.

He radiates danger the way some men radiate cologne.

I feel nothing.

(That's a lie. I feel rage. It sits in my chest like a living thing, coiled and patient. I've fed it for eight years, and now it's finally being rewarded with proximity to one of the men who destroyed everything I loved.)

"Miss De Luca," he says. His voice is deep, textured like expensive whiskey. "Or should I say Mrs. Moretti?"

"We're not married yet." I keep my tone neutral. Pleasant, even. "Serafina is fine."

He crosses the room with the fluid grace of a predator. No wasted movement. Every step calculated. He pulls out the chair across from me and sits, never breaking eye contact.

"So you're the ghost who won't stay dead."

I smile. It probably looks genuine to anyone who doesn't know better. "And you're the devil who makes them."

Something flickers in those cold eyes. Surprise? Amusement? It's gone before I can identify it.

A server appears—silent, efficient—and pours wine. Neither of us touches it. The server disappears.

We study each other across the table like chess players examining the board.

He's looking at my necklace. I watch his eyes track the diamonds and see something shift in his expression before he locks it down. Does he remember it? Does he know this was my mother's? That she was wearing it the night his family's hired killers put a bullet in her head?

I want to reach across this table and wrap my hands around his throat.

Instead, I take a sip of water.

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LORENZO

She's not what I expected.

I'd prepared myself for tears, for desperation, for the broken shell of a girl who'd watched her family die. The Five Families had sold me that version—the traumatized princess who'd surface eventually, easy to manipulate, easier to control.

They were wrong.

The woman sitting across from me is composed like a blade is composed. All edges are honed to lethal precision. She wears black—appropriate for mourning, but on her it looks like war paint. Her dark hair is pulled back in a way that exposes the elegant column of her throat, and those eyes...

Green. Sharp. Missing nothing.

She's beautiful, but it's the kind of beauty that comes with a warning label.

And that necklace.

My breath catches for half a second before I control it. I know that necklace. I remember it because memory is a curse I can't escape. Eight years ago, my father sent me to gather intelligence on the De Luca estate—security rotations, weak points, and personnel schedules. I was twenty-two and stupid enough to think I was proving myself worthy.

Three days later, the De Lucas were dead.

I remember seeing the crime scene photos afterward. I wasn't supposed to, but I looked anyway because I needed to understand what my information had enabled. Her mother was in one of those photos, throat cut, wearing that exact necklace.

Serafina is wearing her dead mother's diamonds to meet the man who helped kill her.

The message is clear: I know exactly who you are.

Guilt tries to surface. I drown it in ice.

"Let's be clear," I say, leaning forward. I keep my voice cold and businesslike. "This marriage is a formality. You stay out of my business, and I'll stay out of yours. We present a united front to the families, we share a name, and beyond that, we live separate lives."

She smiles.

It doesn't reach her eyes.

"We'll see."

Two words. Delivered like a promise and a threat.

I study her more carefully. She hasn't touched her wine—smart, doesn't trust me not to poison it. Her hands rest on the table, relaxed but ready. There's a slight weight to her right side that suggests a weapon. Thigh holster, probably. Her posture is perfect but not rigid. Controlled breathing.

This woman has been trained. Seriously trained.

"Why agree to this?" I ask, genuinely curious now. "You could have run. Disappeared again. Instead, you walked straight back into the nest of people who want you dead."

"Because I have nothing left to lose." Her voice is calm. Matter-of-fact. "What's your excuse?"

"I don't need an excuse to take what's mine."

"Yours?" She tilts her head slightly. "You think marrying me makes my family's legacy yours?"

"The Five Families decreed it. Your assets, your territory, your name—all attached to mine now. That makes them mine."

"On paper." She picks up her wine glass finally, swirls it once, and sets it down without drinking. "But paper burns, Mr. Moretti. Contracts can be voided. And legacies..." She pauses and lets her eyes meet mine fully. "Legacies have a way of reclaiming themselves."

The temperature in the room seems to drop.

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a fact." She leans back in her chair, completely relaxed now. "You're marrying a ghost, Lorenzo. And ghosts don't stay buried when they have unfinished business."

I should be angry. Instead, I'm... intrigued.

She's playing a game, and she's better at it than anyone expected. Including me.

"Thirty days," I say. "That's how long you have to prepare for this marriage. I suggest you use that time to adjust your expectations. This is a business arrangement. Nothing more."

"Of course." She stands, smooth and graceful. The meeting is over because she's decided it's over. Another power play. "Thank you for the clarification. It's always helpful to know exactly where one stands."

She moves toward the door, and I catch myself watching the way she walks—confident, purposeful, like a queen surveying territory rather than a prisoner approaching her execution.

At the door, she pauses. Looks back.

"One more thing, Mr. Moretti."

"Yes?"

"You said this marriage makes my family's legacy yours. But it also works in reverse." Her smile is sharp enough to cut. "Your sins become mine to inherit. Your enemies, your debts, your guilt. Are you prepared to share those so generousl

y?"

She doesn't wait for an answer. The door closes behind her with a soft click.

I sit alone in the elegant room, staring at the untouched wine glasses, and realize I've just met my match.

And I have no idea if that terrifies me or excites me.

Probably both.

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