Chapter 4

Seraphina Caruso POV:

I didn't reply to the text.

Instead, I opened an encrypted messaging app called Signal and scrolled down to a contact saved only as The Broker.

I need a number, I typed. Rocco Moretti.

The three dots appeared instantly. Cost you a favor.

Done.

A contact card appeared on my screen seconds later.

Rocco Moretti. The Enforcer. The man who broke bones for a living. The man who was currently engaged to Isabella Falcone.

The man whose honor was currently bleeding out on his phone screen because of the Gallo and Falcone families.

I saved the number.

I forwarded the screenshots of Isabella's texts. I forwarded the photo of Dante in the hotel booth. I forwarded the voice note where Dante confessed his love to Isabella.

I added one line of text: Suite 8808. Grand Hyatt. She's waiting for an audience.

I pressed send.

I didn't have to wait long.

My phone rang. The screen displayed Rocco Moretti.

I answered.

"Who is this?" His voice was a low growl, grating like gravel in a concrete mixer.

"The woman who wasted seven years on the man currently sleeping with your fiancée," I said calmly.

Heavy breathing on the other end. Then, the distinct roar of a high-performance engine revving to life.

"Is this real?" he asked. The danger in his tone spiked, sharp and metallic.

"Go to the Hyatt. Ask the front desk for the key to 8808. Tell them you're with the wedding party. Or just break the door down. I don't care."

"Where are you?"

"I'm ten minutes away. I'm coming to watch."

"Meet me at the side entrance," Rocco said. "Don't make me wait."

The line clicked dead.

I stood up. I stripped off my comfortable sweats, letting them pool on the floor.

I put on black leggings, a black compression top, and combat boots. I pulled my dark hair into a tight, severe ponytail, pulling the strands until my scalp stung.

I looked in the mirror. I didn't look like a mistress anymore. I looked like a soldier.

I grabbed my keys and walked out.

The drive to the Hyatt was a blur of streetlights and adrenaline. I pulled up to the side entrance, near the loading docks.

A matte black Maybach was already there, engine idling like a beast waiting to pounce.

Rocco Moretti was leaning against the hood. He was huge. Broad shoulders, tattoos creeping up his neck above his collar, a scar slicing through his left eyebrow. He looked like violence wrapped in a bespoke suit.

He saw me and straightened up. His eyes were dark, hollow pits of rage.

"You're the Caruso girl," he said. He didn't sound surprised, just disgusted. "Dante's pet."

"Ex-pet," I corrected, walking up to him. I didn't flinch at his size, though every instinct screamed at me to run. "And you're the man whose ring is on the finger of a whore."

His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He could have snapped my neck with one hand, but he just nodded once.

"Let's go."

We walked through the lobby. People parted for Rocco like water around a shark. He didn't stop at the desk. He didn't ask for a key.

We went straight to the elevator. He punched the button for the 88th floor with a force that threatened to crack the panel.

The ride up was silent. The air pressure changed, popping my ears.

"Why give me this?" Rocco asked, not looking at me. "Why not just leave?"

"Because she sent me a gift card for one dollar," I said.

Rocco looked at me then. A flicker of confusion, then a dark, twisted amusement danced in his eyes.

The doors opened.

We walked down the plush hallway. We could hear music thumping from the end of the corridor.

Suite 8808.

I could hear Isabella's laughter. It was shrill, triumphant.

Rocco didn't knock.

He lifted his boot and kicked the lock. Wood splintered with a deafening crack, the sound of a gunshot echoing through the quiet hall. The door swung open.

We stepped into the lion's den.