Seraphina POV

Barely fifteen minutes into the drive, Dante ordered his driver to divert the convoy. We did not go to his estate; instead, we went to a private, underground clinic controlled by the syndicate.

A trusted mob doctor was waiting for us. He led me to a sterile room and examined my hand. He cleaned the burn, applied a cooling medical-grade salve, and wrapped it in fresh white bandages.

The cleaning process stung terribly, but I sat perfectly still on the examination table. I stared at the wall and endured the pain in silence.

Dante sat in a leather chair beside the table. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. As the doctor worked, Dante's hand gripped the armrest of his chair so tightly his knuckles strained.

"You can cry," Dante murmured, his voice dropping low in the quiet room.

I shook my head. My throat felt dry and raspy. "I don't cry." I swallowed hard. "My mother said crying is just a manipulation tactic."

Dante went dead silent. He did not say another word, but I noticed his knuckles turning white against the dark leather armrest. A silent, terrifying rage rolled off his body, filling the small room until it was hard to breathe.

We left the clinic at two in the morning. The convoy drove back into the city, arriving at Dante's heavily guarded, ultra-luxurious penthouse.

The head housekeeper greeted us at the private elevator doors, bowing her head respectfully. Dante issued quiet orders to her before she led me upstairs to the second floor.

My suite was massive, decorated in soft blues and creams. The bed was huge and plush, and a tray with warm water and fresh pastries waited on the nightstand.

The closet, lined with cedar, was filled with designer dresses on velvet hangers, their price tags still attached and glinting under the recessed lighting. I retreated to the marble bathroom, where a tube of premium burn ointment sat beside an array of expensive soaps, their presence a quiet accusation. I walked back into the center of the bedroom and stopped, a trespasser in a museum, my hands twisting the coarse fabric of my own dress.

Dante leaned against the doorframe. He had taken off his overcoat, and he watched me with intense, dark eyes.

I turned to him anxiously. "What are my duties?" I asked. "What do you need me to clean first?"

"Nothing," Dante replied.

I shook my head, stepping toward him. "I can scrub floors. I can do the laundry. I know how to cook for large groups. If I am taking up too much space in this room, I can sleep on the floor. I am used to it."

Dante pushed off the doorframe. He stepped into the room, closing the distance between us. He was so tall I had to tilt my head back to look at him, and he bent slightly to meet my eyes.

"Seraphina," he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "You didn't marry me to be a maid in my house."

I stared at him, stunned. "Then what am I here for?"

Dante looked at me with a hidden devotion that made my chest ache. "To be worshipped."

The walls I had built for eighteen years cracked down the middle. My vision blurred, the edges of the ornate Persian rug beginning to bleed and swim in a wash of unshed tears.

"Why?" I asked, my voice breaking. "Why is the most dangerous man in the city being so good to me?"

Dante reached into his pocket and handed me a clean linen handkerchief. "Do you believe in fate?" he asked softly.

He didn't explain further, leaving me to sleep. But as I lay in the massive bed, staring at the soft glow of the nightlight I hadn't asked for yet somehow already had, his question echoed in my mind. Fate. Was that what this was? Or was there something more—something he wasn't telling me yet?

By morning, the news of the Don taking the Rossi outcast spread through the underworld like wildfire. Rumors and whispers flooded the syndicate network.

I woke up to the sound of the suite's cordless landline ringing. The digital display on the sleek device flashed a forwarded call from the syndicate's switchboard. The caller ID said Mother.

I answered it, my stomach tying in knots out of pure habit.

Elena screamed into the speaker. "Return to this house immediately! You will apologize to Isabella for stealing her spotlight. You have humiliated this family!"

I looked down at my freshly bandaged hand resting on the silk sheets. "What do I have to apologize for?" I asked softly.

Elena exploded. "You broke Omertà! You are a disgrace to our bloodline."

Marco took the phone from her. His tone was softer, dripping with manipulation. "Seraphina, listen to me. We will give you a bigger room. We will publicly acknowledge you as a Rossi. Just come home. And while you are at it, beg Dante to give us the shipping routes he controls."

A large hand reached over my shoulder, and Dante took the cordless receiver from my ear.

"She is never going back," Dante spoke into the receiver.

Elena shrieked in the background. "This is Family business!"

Dante's voice was lethal. "The moment you tried to sell her to Chicago, she ceased being your Family. She is Falcone now."

He hung up the phone and tossed the expensive device into the trash can. He looked down at me. "Are you hungry?"

I nodded slowly.

Dante took me out under heavy guard. After eating at a private restaurant, he brought me to a high-end boutique controlled by the Falcone Family. The staff scrambled to lock the doors and present their best collections.

I walked past the racks of clothing. I looked at the first price tag and immediately shook my head, pulling my hand back. I was conditioned to believe I was not worth the fabric.

"What do you actually like?" Dante asked, standing behind me.

I timidly touched the sleeve of a pale blue gown; the silk was incredibly soft.

"Box up the entire rack," Dante ordered the store manager without looking away from me.

The staff rushed to obey, and the manager urged me into the fitting room to try on the blue dress.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror. The dress fit perfectly. It swept the floor, making me look elegant, but I remembered Elena's voice in my head, telling me I was too common for fine clothes.

Dante stepped into the fitting area, standing behind my reflection. He placed his large hands near my waist—not quite touching me, but close enough that I felt his heat.

"You look perfect," he said to my reflection.

I smiled down at the floor, tears falling again, hot and fast. I realized, for the first time in my life, I was truly seen and protected, and no one was going to take it away.

But even as the tears fell, a question nagged at the back of my mind—the same question from last night. Why me? Why had the most powerful Don in New York been waiting for my call?