Sera Pov The last time I laughed like that, I had no idea it would be the last time. Flour covered my lap, my apron, and the tip of my nose. I sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, snorting so hard my ribs ached. Noah sat across from me, white powder streaked down his black shirt, a fork hovering over our fifth test batch of pistachio cake. The whole apartment smelled like warm sugar and vanilla. Like home. Like the only place I was ever truly happy. "You have flour everywhere," Noah said. "It's part of the process." I pointed my whisk at him like a sword. "You can't make the best pistachio cake in the city without getting messy." "Is that so?" "Science." He grinned and reached over. His thumb brushed my cheek, slow and careful, wiping away a smudge I'd probably put there on purpose. Then he stayed there. His palm cupped my jaw, warm and a little rough, and my breath hitched. Two years. He still made my stomach flip like it was our first date. "One day," Noah said, his voice dropping low, "we won't be doing this on a kitchen floor. I'm going to put a ring on your finger, Sera. We'll get a real shop downtown, with a huge glass window and your name over the door in gold letters." My smile stayed glued to my face. My heart did not. It dropped like a stone, and my fingers curled around the whisk until my knuckles turned white. A lump swelled in my throat. I swallowed it down, hard. Gold letters. A ring. A future. If only he knew. "Someday," I whispered. It sounded less like a promise and more like a prayer. Noah's eyebrows pinched. He opened his mouth to ask, and my phone buzzed on the counter. Once. Twice. A sharp, angry rattle against the wood. I scrambled up, wiping my hands on my apron, and grabbed it. **Papa: Come home. Now. Alone.** The cold hit me first. It started in my chest and crawled down my arms until my fingertips went numb. Papa never texted like that. Papa never said *alone*. "Sera?" Noah was beside me now, his hand settling on my shoulder. "What's wrong? You went pale." I flipped the phone face down. Fast. Too fast. "Nothing." I plastered on a bright smile that made my cheeks hurt. "Family stuff. Papa needs me to run a quick errand." A lie. A tiny one, said to the one person I'd never lied to before. Noah studied my face for a second too long. Then he kissed my forehead and let it go. That trust made my stomach twist worse than any threat could have. *Coward,* I told myself. *You don't even know what's coming yet.* --- An hour later, I stood outside my father's study with my hand frozen on the doorknob. The Rossi estate was always quiet, but tonight the silence felt heavy, like the air before a storm. My heels clicked too loudly on the marble. My pulse thudded in my ears. I pushed the door open. Two men in black suits stood on either side of it. Tall. Silent. Hands folded in front of them, eyes fixed on nothing. I had never seen them before, and something about the way they didn't blink made the back of my neck prickle. "Papa?" He sat behind his huge mahogany desk, and for a second I almost didn't recognize him. Enzo Rossi, the man who once carried me on his shoulders through a crowded street festival, looked like he had aged ten years since Sunday dinner. His hair seemed grayer. His shoulders curved inward like he was trying to disappear. A heavy crystal glass of whiskey shook in his hand, the ice rattling softly. He didn't look up. "What's going on?" My voice came out thin. "Who are these men?" My father took a long, shaky gulp. His throat bobbed. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded like gravel scraped over glass. "We lost a shipment last week, Sera. The whole cargo. Seized." He stared at the desk, at the wood grain, at anything but me. "We owe the Valenti family a debt. A debt we can't pay in cash." *Valenti.* Even the name made the room feel colder. Everyone in this city knew it. Nobody said it above a whisper. "Okay," I said slowly. "But what does that have to do with me?" Silence. Papa's eyes squeezed shut, and a single tear rolled down his weathered cheek. It landed on his sleeve. I had never seen my father cry. Not at Mama's funeral. Not once. "To stop a war," he said, his voice splitting in two, "a deal was made years ago. A blood pact. When you turned twenty-two..." He drew in a ragged breath. "You are to marry Dante Valenti." The world went quiet. Not dramatic, movie-quiet. Real quiet. A high, thin ringing filled my ears, like someone had pressed a pillow over my head. My hands went numb. My knees felt strangely far away, like they belonged to somebody else. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I looked down at the little cake box I'd brought, a slice of pistachio I'd meant to share with him, and I set it very gently on the corner of his desk. Like it was made of glass. Like if I put it down wrong, something inside me would shatter right along with it. "I have a boyfriend, Papa." My voice sounded awful. Flat. Calm. Terrifyingly calm. "I love Noah." "Not anymore." Papa finally lifted his eyes. They were red and swollen, and full of something worse than anger. Shame. "If you try to see him," he said quietly, "if you try to run, the Valentis will put a bullet in that boy's head before you reach the city limits. It's done, Sera. I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry." *Sorry.* I stared at him. My nails dug crescents into my palms. My mouth tasted like metal. He had sold me. My own father had traded me like a shipment of stolen goods. And he was apologizing as if that fixed it. The man at the door shifted. The leather of his shoes creaked. It was the only sound in the whole room. With trembling fingers, Papa reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph. Matte black. Smooth as a blade. He slid it across the desk, and it stopped right at my fingertips. I didn't want to look. I looked anyway. A man in a tailored black suit stared straight into the camera. Sharp jaw. Cold, dark eyes. The kind of eyes that didn't ask permission for anything. Even through paper, his gaze made my skin crawl and my pulse skip, like he could see me looking back. My hand shook as I flipped the photo over. Four words, in neat, elegant handwriting. Friday. Be ready.

SERA'S POV Mia dropped her mug, and it shattered across the kitchen tiles. "He what?" "Shh!" I grabbed her wrist and yanked her down beside me on the floor, away from the window. The lights were off. Only the glow of the streetlamp slipped through the blinds. "Keep your voice down." "Sera, your dad sold you." Mia's whisper cracked in the middle. Her fingers were ice-cold in mine. "Like a couch." "Not a couch. A debt." "That's worse!" It was. I knew it was. My whole body kept shaking in little waves, as if I'd swallowed a live wire. I tucked my knees to my chest and bit the inside of my cheek until it stung. Mia stared at me for three heartbeats. Then her eyes went wide and fierce. "We run. Tonight. I'll pack your bag, you grab your passport, and we're gone before sunrise." "They'd find us in a day." "We'd be fast." "Mia." I swallowed. "They'd find Noah, too." That shut her up. My phone lay on the tiles between us. The screen lit up with a photo from last summer: Noah, squinting into the sun, a lopsided paper crown on his head from my birthday cake. He was laughing at something off-camera. I stared at it until my eyes burned. Then I flipped the phone face down, and the kitchen went dark again. --- By morning, my hands had stopped working properly. The bakery was warm and loud, trays clanging, the oven fan roaring. I rolled out croissant dough with a rolling pin that felt twice as heavy as usual. Fold. Turn. Fold. My mind drifted off somewhere between Friday and bullet. The smell hit me first. Burnt butter. Sharp and bitter. "Sera!" Gina, my boss, whipped around with a towel over her shoulder. "The croissants!" I yanked the oven door open. Smoke poured out in a gray cloud. Twelve perfect croissants, now twelve little black bricks. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I'll remake them." "In seven years, you've never burned anything." Gina's eyes dropped to my hands. They were trembling so badly the tray rattled against the rack. Her voice softened. "Honey. What's wrong?" Everything. "Just tired." I forced a laugh that sounded like a hiccup. "Late night." She didn't believe me. She let it go anyway and patted my shoulder before heading back to the counter. I dumped the ruined tray into the trash. Then I wiped my palms on my apron, over and over, and glanced out the shop window just to breathe. That's when I saw the car. It sat across the street, long and glossy and black as a hole in the world. Engine idling. Windows tinted so dark they swallowed the morning light. My stomach dropped through the floor. Slowly, the back window slid down. Only halfway. Only enough to show a pair of eyes. Dark. Steady. Completely unbothered. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just looked at me, through the glass, across a busy street, like I was the only thing in the city worth looking at. One second. Two. My lungs forgot how to work. Five. The rolling pin slid from my fingers and thudded onto the counter, and I didn't even flinch. Seven. A cold sweat crawled down my spine. Ten. The window slid shut. The car rolled away without a sound. I stood there, gripping the edge of the counter, my heart slamming so hard it hurt. That was him. I didn't need a name. I knew. --- DANTE'S POV One finger. Tap. Tap. Tap against my knee. "Is that her, boss?" Luca asked from the driver's seat, eyes on the mirror. "That's her." "She doesn't look like much." "No." I watched the bakery shrink in the rear window. A small shop. A girl in a flour-streaked apron, standing frozen behind the glass with her fingers white against the counter. "She burned something this morning." Luca frowned. "How do you know?" "Smoke on the window. And she was holding the trash can like she wanted to hide it." I let the words sit. She was afraid. Good. Fear kept people alive. Fear made them careful. I'd built an empire on it, and I felt nothing about adding one more name to the list. So why couldn't I stop seeing her hands? They'd been shaking. But her chin had stayed up. "Drive," I said. Tap. Tap. Tap. --- SERA'S POV "Surprise!" I almost screamed. Noah stood at the bakery counter that afternoon with a paper cup in one hand and a tiny paper flower in the other, folded from a napkin, crooked and a little crushed. His grin was so wide it made my chest ache. "Caramel latte, extra foam, and a flower I made during Anatomy." He held both out like treasures. "The professor was not amused." I took the cup. My fingers brushed his, and all of a sudden I couldn't hold myself together. I threw my arms around his neck. I hugged him too hard, and too long. His chest was warm, and his heartbeat thudded steadily against my cheek. He smelled like soap and coffee and every safe place I'd ever known. Noah went stiff, then softer. His arms wrapped around my back. "Sera?" His voice was low and worried. "Hey. What's wrong?" Don't tell him. Don't tell him. Don't tell him. Hot tears slid down my face and soaked into his shirt. I couldn't stop them. My shoulders shook, and my fingers dug into his jacket as if he might evaporate if I let go. "Hold me," I whispered. "Please. Just hold me." And he did. He didn't ask again. He just pressed his lips to my hair and held on. I didn't see the black car parked at the end of the block. I didn't see the man in the passenger seat lift a camera. Click. --- That night, I unlocked my apartment door with a hand that wouldn't stop trembling. Mia was out. The place felt too quiet. I kicked off my shoes, flicked on the lamp, and nearly stepped on it. A plain white envelope lay on the floor, just inside the door. No name. No stamp. It had been slid right under. My mouth went dry. My heart began to pound, slow and heavy, like footsteps coming closer. I knelt down. Picked it up. The paper felt thick and cold. Inside was a single photograph. Me. In Noah's arms. His lips against my hair. My face wet with tears. I couldn't breathe. On the bottom edge, written in black ink, in neat, elegant handwriting I already recognized, was one line: "Enjoy him while he lasts."

SERA'S POV I read the message six times before I believed it. Enjoy him while he lasts. The photograph lay on my bed, and I stood over it with my arms wrapped around myself, staring at Noah's face. He was smiling in the picture, completely unaware that someone had been watching us. That someone had followed him. That someone had decided our happiness was a threat. My phone vibrated. I nearly threw it across the room. Unknown Number: Friday. Don't make us repeat ourselves. My fingers went numb. Friday was the wedding date on the calendar my father had shown me. Two weeks from now, I would belong to a man whose eyes had followed me through a car window, whose family name could silence an entire city. I wasn't sure which terrified me more: marrying Dante Valenti or what he might do if I refused. A knock sounded at the door. "Sera?" I shoved the photograph beneath my pillow. "What?" "Your father wants you downstairs." Of course he did. I wiped my palms on my trousers and opened the door. One of my father's men stood in the hallway, dressed in the same black suit I'd seen at the estate. His expression didn't change when he looked at me. "Mr. Rossi says you need to get ready. We're leaving in an hour." "Leaving for where?" "The Valenti estate." My stomach tightened. "Why?" "Dinner." He said it as though he were inviting me to a birthday party instead of delivering me to the man who had threatened the person I loved. I shut the door in his face. Then I slid down against it, pressed both hands over my mouth, and tried not to scream. --- The dress my father had chosen was waiting on my bed. Navy blue. Plain. Long sleeves, a modest neckline, and a hem that fell just below my knees. There was nothing wrong with it. That somehow made it worse. I wasn't being dressed for a wedding or a funeral. I was being dressed for dinner with my future husband, as though this were an ordinary arrangement between two ordinary families. I pulled it over my head and stood before the mirror. My face looked pale. My eyes looked tired. I pinched my cheeks until they regained some colour, then lifted my chin. If Dante Valenti expected me to arrive shaking, he could be disappointed. My phone buzzed on the bed. Mia: Are you going to the mansion tonight? I stared at the screen before typing. Me: Apparently. It's a dinner invitation. Mia: That's not an invitation. That's a kidnapping with better clothes. Despite everything, a small laugh escaped me. Another message arrived immediately. Mia: Say the word and I'll call the police. My smile vanished. I typed the words, deleted them, and typed them again. Me: They own the police. For several seconds, Mia didn't reply. Then my screen lit up. Mia: Then we find someone they don't own. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to grab my passport, find Noah, and drive until the city disappeared behind us. But every road out of this nightmare seemed to lead straight back to Noah. I locked my phone and slipped it into my purse. There was no point pretending I could run when the people chasing me already knew who I loved. --- The Valenti mansion stood behind towering iron gates, surrounded by high walls and trees that hid most of the grounds from the road. Two guards checked our vehicle before the gates swung open. Beyond them, a long driveway curved toward a sprawling stone building with tall windows and a black roof. The place was beautiful in the way expensive things often were. Perfect from a distance. Cold when you got close. I watched the mansion grow larger through the window, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. "Remember to be respectful," the man beside me said. I turned to him. "Will they shoot me if I'm not?" He didn't answer. That was answer enough. The car stopped beneath the entrance canopy. A man in a dark suit opened my door, and I stepped out without waiting for assistance. My heels clicked against the stone as I followed him inside. The entrance hall smelled of polished wood and something faintly smoky. A massive chandelier hung overhead, scattering light across the marble floor. Men stood near the walls, speaking quietly into their phones. Every one of them watched me pass. I kept my eyes forward. A woman in a fitted black dress approached and led me through a pair of double doors. The dining room was enormous. A long table stretched beneath golden lights, set with silver cutlery, crystal glasses, and candles that flickered in the still air. Several men occupied the chairs along either side. Their conversations slowed when I entered. And at the head of the table sat Dante Valenti. He wore a black shirt with the sleeves buttoned at his wrists. His dark hair was neatly styled, and one hand rested around a crystal glass of amber liquid. He wasn't looking at me when I walked in. He was listening to the man beside him. He didn't stand. He didn't even bother pretending my arrival mattered. Something hot and stubborn stirred beneath my ribs. If he wanted a frightened little bride, he had chosen the wrong girl. "You're late," he said. His eyes finally lifted to mine. Dark. Steady. Unreadable. I stopped beside the empty chair opposite him. "I wasn't invited to be on time. I was ordered." A man halfway down the table coughed into his fist. Someone else suddenly became very interested in his wine. Dante's gaze held mine for another second. The corner of his mouth moved, almost forming a smile, before his expression settled back into its usual coldness. "Sit." "Please?" His fingers stopped against the glass. The room went quiet. For a moment, I thought I'd pushed too far. Then Dante leaned back in his chair, studying me as if I were an unfamiliar object he'd just discovered in his house. "Sit down, Sera." At least he knew my name. I pulled out the chair and sat. A waiter appeared almost immediately, placing a plate in front of me. I glanced at the food but couldn't have identified a single thing on it. My stomach had knotted itself into something too tight to hold even a sip of water. The man seated to Dante's right leaned forward. He was older than Dante, with silver beginning to show at his temples. His expensive suit fit perfectly, but his smile was ugly enough to ruin it. "So this is the baker girl," he said. "I expected someone a little more-" "Marco." Dante didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Marco Vitale's smile disappeared. His fingers tightened around his fork, and a muscle jumped in his cheek. "Of course," he muttered, leaning back. I glanced at Dante. He hadn't even looked at Marco. He was cutting into his food as though the interruption had been no more significant than a fly landing on the table. That was when I understood something. Dante didn't have to shout to make people obey him. He only had to speak. "Eat," he said to me. "I'm not hungry." "That wasn't a question." I picked up my fork. I would eat every bite on that plate before I gave him the satisfaction of seeing me tremble. For the next several minutes, the men discussed business. A shipment had been delayed. Someone in the south had missed a payment. Another man needed permission to handle a problem in one of the city's clubs. Nobody explained anything to me, but I caught enough to understand that this dinner had very little to do with food. These men were discussing lives as casually as other people discussed the weather. And Dante sat at the centre of it all. Finally, he set down his fork. "Our wedding will take place in two weeks." My hand stopped halfway to my mouth. I looked up. "Two weeks?" "Yes." "You make it sound like you've ordered new curtains." One of the men shifted uncomfortably. Dante's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Do you have a problem with the date?" "I have a problem with the wedding." "That makes two of us, then." I blinked. For the first time that evening, he sounded almost human. Then he lifted his glass, and whatever I'd thought I'd heard disappeared. I set down my fork. "And if I say no?" Dante placed his glass on the table with deliberate care. "Your father loses his hands." The words landed between us. He continued as if he were explaining a simple business arrangement. "Your family loses everything they own. Their protection, their money, their place in this city. Anyone who has benefited from the Rossi name will learn what happens when a Rossi breaks a deal with me." My throat tightened. "And me?" His gaze settled on my face. "You lose nothing, Sera." A bitter laugh threatened to escape me. "Nothing?" "Because you'll still be mine." My breath caught. The room seemed to shrink around me. I could hear the clock ticking somewhere behind my chair, the soft scrape of a knife against a plate, the faint clink of ice inside someone's glass. Mine. He spoke as though the matter had already been settled. As though my opinion were a minor inconvenience that would disappear once he stopped acknowledging it. I lowered my eyes to my plate. My fork trembled against the china, producing a tiny metallic sound. I hated that he noticed. I hated even more that he didn't look particularly pleased by it. "Is there anyone I should know about?" he asked. My heart slammed against my ribs. Noah's face flashed through my mind. His crooked paper flower. His arms around me at the bakery. The photograph beneath my pillow. Dante watched me without moving. I forced myself to meet his gaze. "No." The lie tasted like blood. He held my eyes for so long that I wondered whether he could hear my heartbeat. Then he nodded once. "Good." The dinner continued, but I barely heard another word. By the time Dante dismissed me, my shoulders ached from holding myself so rigidly. I rose from my chair, smoothed my dress, and turned toward the door. I was almost there when someone stepped into my path. Marco Vitale. He moved aside to let me pass, wearing that same unpleasant smile. As I drew level with him, he leaned close enough that his breath brushed my ear. "You're a terrible liar, sweetheart." I stopped. His smile widened. "He already knows about the boy." The blood drained from my face. I turned sharply, but Marco had already stepped away. He picked up his glass and took a leisurely sip, pretending he'd said nothing at all. Across the room, Dante was speaking to another man. He didn't look at me. He didn't have to. I walked out of the dining room with my chin raised and my hands clenched inside my dress pockets. I didn't allow myself to run until I reached the entrance hall. The moment the front doors closed behind me, I pulled out my phone. Noah's name glowed on the screen. My thumb hovered over it. He knows about you. I wanted to call. I wanted to tell Noah everything, beg him to stay away, beg him to forgive me for the things I hadn't even done yet. Instead, I locked my phone. Because if Dante Valenti already knew about Noah, then the question wasn't whether my lie had fooled him. The question was how much time Noah had left.