“I have to stop him,” I speak into my husband’s solid chest.“I have to find definitive proof.If I don’t, he might argue that he was forced into this, that Cesare has some leverage over him and manipulated him.”
Shelby pulls back just far enough to hold my stare.His blue eyes are fierce.“We’ll find it.And then we’ll burn the whole fucking operation down together.”
I nod, needing to believe that.I find relief in knowing that I’m not doing this alone.I remind myself that the man holding me promised he isn’t going to disappear when things get harder.
“You okay?”he asks, pressing a kiss to my temple.
“No,” I answer honestly.“But I will be.We’ll be.”
He holds me tighter, and for the first time since my mother died, I feel like I have someone in my corner.A person who understands that supporting someone means holding them through their worst moments, not just their best ones.
Someone who cares enough about me to help me burn down the empire that raised me.
18
Serena
The Syndicate gala is held at the Ferguson & Arpels Hotel, in a private ballroom that overlooks the Boston Public Garden.Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across the space, and the guest list reads like a who’s who of organized crime families.Irish, Italian, Russian, all of them bound together by blood, business, and an unspoken code that most people outside our world couldn’t begin to comprehend.
I’ve attended events like this before, always in my capacity as Giovanni DiLorenzo’s daughter.Always playing a role.Always aware of the calculated nature of every gesture, every conversation, every smile.Tonight is different, though.Tonight, I’m here with Shelby, and the performance we’re putting on for the Syndicate feels less like a lie and more like the truth.
He looks devastating in a tailored black suit, his dark hair perfectly styled, his blue eyes catching the light as they sweep across the ballroom behind his glasses.When he stares at me, something shifts in his expression.There’s a warmth, a hunger, a possessiveness that steals my breath away.It’s not the calculated look of an actor.It’s the genuine response of a man who wants the woman beside him.
Even if we’re still pretending that’s all this is.
“Ready?”he asks, extending his hand toward me.His palm is warm, his grip firm as I place my hand in his.He pulls me close enough that I can smell his cologne.The dark, woodsy scent reminds me of smoke, winter, and Shelby Boyle.
“Ready,” I confirm, though my heart is thundering in my chest.
We make our entrance together, and I feel the weight of dozens of eyes on us.The Syndicate is watching, assessing, and calculating whether this partnership is genuine.They’re trying to determine if Shelby Boyle, the damaged Marine, the broken enforcer, the man who’s spent the last few years isolating himself, could actually be capable of sustaining a real relationship.
I want them to believe he is.I need them to accept it.
Dave and Alexia are stationed near the bar, and Dave’s expression shifts when he sees us together.There’s approval there, and something else that I dare say may be relief.But who knows with these mafia men?They’re all excellent poker players.Still, I’m picking up a certain vibe from the Syndicate’s leader now as he nods at me.It’s like he’s been waiting for his brother to find his way back to solid ground, and he’s grateful that it’s finally happening.
“Serena,” Alexia greets me warmly, pulling me into a brief hug.“You look absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you,” I say, acutely aware of Shelby’s hand on the small of my back.The touch is possessive, but not aggressive.It’s a statement:she’s with me.“You’re gorgeous as always, Alexia.”
She is radiant in a deep emerald gown, her golden hair swept up in an elegant style.She’s the kind of woman who makes this world look less brutal just by her presence.I wonder sometimes how she does it, how she balances love for a man like Dave with the moral compromises that come with being married into the Syndicate.
“How are things going?”Dave asks Shelby, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.He’s assessing his brother, looking for signs of instability or weakness.
“Good,” Shelby says, and the word carries weight.“Really good, actually.”
He squeezes my waist gently, and I lean into him.It’s a small gesture, but it communicates everything:this is real.This is working.He’s okay.
Dave nods, satisfied, and turns his attention to someone else.The moment he looks away, Shelby leans down and whispers, “Come dance with me.”
The dance floor is full of couples moving to a slow jazz classic.Shelby pulls me into his arms with the ease of someone who knows exactly how to hold a woman.His right hand settles on my waist, his left takes mine, and suddenly we’re moving together like we’ve done this a thousand times.
“You’re staring at me,” I murmur, glancing about us.
“I know,” he says unapologetically.“I like looking at you.”
I raise my eyes to meet his, and the intensity there nearly undoes me.It’s not the look of someone performing for an audience.It’s the look of someone who genuinely wants to memorize every detail of my face.Every freckle.Every flaw.Every part of me that I’ve learned to hide.
“You should know it isn’t polite to stare,” I chuckle, making light conversation because if I don’t, I’m going to do something reckless on this dance floor.
