With a thud, I close the laptop and run to the en-suite bathroom, where I vomit violently.The shock of it, the scale of it, the fact that my father has been running a human trafficking operation under the cover of business as usual.The man taught me about family honor, Syndicate loyalty, and the importance of protecting what’s yours.How can I square that person with the one in those files?
When I’m done, I rinse my mouth and stare at myself in the mirror.The woman looking back is pale but composed.She looks like she’s always known this about her father.Like she’s simply been waiting for confirmation.
Maybe I have.
That could be what all those years of avoiding father’s dealings were really about.At some level, I might have recognized the rot beneath the surface.Some subconscious part of me understood that Giovanni DiLorenzo wasn’t just a businessman—he was a predator in an expensive suit.
I return to the room and spend the next couple of hours methodically duplicating every file from the flash drive, every picture I snapped.I create folders in encrypted locations.I back everything up to the cloud with passwords only I know.My goal is to build a cyber fortress to hold this precious evidence.I’m building a digital palace that my father can’t destroy, where he can’t invade and make any of this disappear.
By the time I finish, I’ve branded all names and faces to my photographic memory.The same way Father branded them in those spreadsheets, like they weren’t human beings, just inventory to be tracked and traded.
I know the scope of the whole operation.I understand that this isn’t some isolated criminal enterprise.It’s purposely integrated into multiple legitimate businesses run by powerful people.The fucking thing has been designed with such precision that bringing all those involved to justice would be almost impossible.
Which means my father didn’t stumble into this.He built it deliberately.Knowingly.With full understanding of what he was doing.
The realization should destroy me.Instead, it clarifies everything.
I text Shelby:We need to talk.Now.Neutral territory.
His response comes within seconds:The warehouse on the harbor.One hour.
11
Shelby
The warehouse smells like salt water and rust, a combination that’s become familiar to me over the years.My family uses this place for everything from weapons storage to clandestine meetings that require absolute discretion.The Boyles own it officially, which means it’s protected under family operations.No surveillance except what we control.No ears except ours.
I arrive first, as planned.The late afternoon light filters through the grimy windows in long golden streaks, illuminating dust motes that dance like ghosts.I push my glasses up on my nose and move through the warehouse with practiced efficiency, checking entry points and confirming the security measures are in place.Old habits.Marine training.The kind of paranoia that keeps you alive in the darkness of our world.
My phone buzzes with another text from Serena:ETA 10 minutes.
I take the time to pour myself a whiskey from the bottle I keep in the back office.My shoulder throbs where the Russian bullet tore through muscle three months ago.The physical wound is nearly healed.The psychological one is still festering, but I’ve learned to function around that particular infection years ago.
The marriage certificate sits heavily in my mind.We’ve been married less than forty-eight hours, and already everything has shifted.This morning, I woke up with Serena curled against my chest, her dark hair spread across my shoulder.For maybe five seconds, I let myself believe that this marriage was real.That we could build something lasting.
Then reality reasserted itself.
A fake marriage designed to protect her from one predator is no basis for anything real or lasting.More importantly, I lack the solid foundations to build a happily-ever-after kind of relationship.Nothing will ever remain whole on the shaky grounds I stand on every fucking day of my life.I can’t ask Serena to stand with me when my demons live rent-free inside my head.
I won’t ask her that.It wouldn’t be fair.Once the threat Cesare poses is eliminated, I have to set her free.I must send her running away from my damned soul.
God help me do that!
I hear her car before I see it.The sleek red Mercedes pulls through the warehouse entrance, and I watch from my vantage point in the shadows of the back office as she cuts the engine.She sits in the driver’s seat for a moment, just breathing, gathering herself.Even from this distance, the tension in her shoulders is evident.Her chest rises and falls a couple of times as she tries to impose some level of control over her own body language.
When she finally emerges, she looks like she’s been through a war.Elegant black dress, perfectly styled hair, immaculate makeup.All the armor she needs to survive in Giovanni DiLorenzo’s world.But her hands shake slightly as she closes the car door, and there’s something haunted in her eyes that wasn’t there this morning.
I step out of the shadows.
She doesn’t startle because she was expecting to meet me here.
“Thank you for coming,” she says, and her voice is steady.
“Always.”I move toward her, and the instinct to pull her into my arms is so strong it takes physical effort to maintain distance.“Come inside,” I invite, pointing my head toward the office door.
She takes another deep breath before following me into the back office.The sparse room offers little comfort, with a desk and a few chairs.I pour her a generous dose from a bottle of Macallan Sherry Oak 25.She accepts it and drains half in one swallow.
“What happened?”
