The way her brow furrows when she concentrates.The way she tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear without thinking.The way her lips move slightly when she’s reading code, like she’s having a conversation with the machine in a language only they understand.
I almost lost her.The thought surfaces unbidden, sharp as a blade.
“You’re staring,” Serena says without looking up.
“I’m appreciating the view.”
That earns me a flicker of a smile.The first genuine smile I’ve seen on her face since I rescued her.I’m aware we haven’t had any time alone since I got her back.Yes, she’s expressed her gratitude.Still, something is bothering me that I can’t name.Serena’s been standoffish, even considering the horrors she must have endured while in captivity.
We reach the safe house a few minutes later.It’s a brownstone that looks like every other brownstone on the street, which means it’s unremarkable, the kind of place eyes slide past without registering.Exactly what we need right now.
Inside, the space is sparse but comfortable.The Syndicate furnished the place for short stays, so luxury wasn’t a priority.Dave had someone stock the pantry.
“We should sleep,” Serena says, setting her laptop on the kitchen counter.“It’s almost six.”
“We should.”
Neither of us moves toward the bedroom.
Instead, she pours two glasses of whiskey—Macallan 25, because even in a safe house, the Syndicate has standards—and carries them to the living room.She curls up on one end of the couch, feet tucked beneath her, and offers me the second glass.
I take it as I sit on the opposite end, leaving space between us that feels necessary yet unbearable.
“Fifteen people,” she whispers.“Eight women, seven children.”
“Yes.”
“We did that.”
“You bet.”
She takes a sip of whiskey, then stares at the glass.“It doesn’t fix anything.My father has been doing this for years.There are hundreds more, thousands maybe.”
“We’ll find them.We have the locations.We’re not done, Serena.This was only the first strike.”
Her eyes meet mine, dark amber in the dim light.She opens her mouth as if to say something.Then, she drops her gaze to the Persian rug.She shuts down, her lips forming a tight line, a bluish vein pulsing at her set jaw.
I set down my glass and close the distance between us on the couch.Not touching her, not yet, but close enough that her warmth wraps around me.
“Talk to me.”
For a moment, I don’t think she will.Serena DiLorenzo doesn’t show weakness.She was raised to survive in a world where vulnerability equals destruction.Opening up, letting someone see the fractures, goes against everything she’s been taught.
“There’s a video,” she says finally, but pauses; she swallows hard.
My stomach drops when she lifts her gaze to mine.There’s so much pain in her whiskey eyes that it wrecks my heart.Every instinct screams for me to hold her tight, to make that hurt go away.Whatever the fuck her devil of a father showed her has cut deep.That is painfully obvious.
But when I move in for a hug, her body stiffens.
I go still.And wait.Giving her the space she needs against all my caveman ethics.
“When my father had me...when he was trying to break me.”She takes another sip from the glass.“Cesare showed me surveillance footage.You and a blonde woman on the terrace.In the penthouse where you and I—” She stops, her cheeks flushing.
My blood turns to ice.“Another woman?”
“Against the mirrored windows.The same position we—” She shakes her head.
“That’s impossible,” I hear myself say, my voice hollow.“I haven’t touched another woman since I returned from Russia.Hell, I’ve never taken a woman to the penthouse.”
