Chapter 2

Sera POV:

I sat alone at the table set for two, twisting the heavy diamond on my finger until its cold facets dug a painful groove into my skin.

Each minute of his tardiness seemed to tick by not on the clock, but as a fresh incision on my nerves.

Forty minutes late.

I signaled the waiter for another water, my throat parched from rehearsing the ultimatum I planned to deliver. But instead of the waiter, I saw them.

Matteo walked in, his hand resting with a firm, proprietary pressure on the small of her back.

Bianca.

She looked fragile, wrapped in an oversized cashmere shawl, her eyes wide and wet.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

She was supposed to be talked off a ledge and tucked into bed in the guest wing of our estate.

Matteo guided her to my table, his jaw a tight knot of muscle. A flicker of guilt crossed his face when he saw me, quickly replaced by a mask of weary duty.

"She wouldn't eat alone," he said, his gaze fixed on a point just over my shoulder. "She's traumatized, Sera."

I looked at Bianca.

She offered me a wavering, watery smile that did not reach her eyes.

"I'm so sorry to intrude, Sera," she whispered, her voice a high, rasping sound, like fine sand being ground against slate. "I just... I couldn't be alone. The flashbacks..."

She reached for the bread basket, and her shawl slipped.

Revealing a silk scarf tied around her neck.

It was identical to the one the kidnappers had used to bind her five years ago.

It was her trigger.

And she was wearing it.

"Why are you wearing that, Bianca?" I asked, my voice flat.

Her eyes widened, and she let out a gasp, as if realizing it for the first time.

"Oh god," she cried out.

She jerked back, her hand flailing.

It connected with the large Americano the waiter had just placed before me.

The scalding, black liquid did not splash; it erupted, a wave of heat and darkness that engulfed my chest and neck.

I made no sound. A gasp was trapped in my throat, the air seized from my lungs as the heat seared my skin like a hot iron.

"Sera!" Matteo shouted.

But he didn't reach for me.

Bianca had started hyperventilating, screaming that the dark liquid looked like blood.

Matteo pulled her into his arms, shushing her, stroking her hair.

"It's okay, Bee, it's just coffee, look at me, breathe," he commanded softly.

I sat there, the coffee soaking into my white silk dress, the delicate skin of my décolletage blistering under the assault.

The pain was sharp, immediate, and blinding.

But it was nothing compared to the phantom ache in my stomach.

The burning sensation dragged me back.

Not two months ago.

Matteo had been with Bianca during a thunderstorm because she was afraid of lightning.

I had been left to entertain the Bratva envoys alone.

To prove the De Luca loyalty, to close the deal Matteo was missing, I drank shot for shot with three Russian heavyweights.

My stomach lining had shredded itself for two days.

I lost my position as prima ballerina for the Bolshoi because my body, ravaged and weakened, could no longer endure the rigors of training for the season.

Matteo had called it a sacrifice for the family.

I stood up, the chair scraping against the floor with a sound that tore through the restaurant's hushed atmosphere.

Matteo looked up at me, his eyes finally landing on the angry red welts blooming across my skin.

"Sera, you're hurt," he said, an absurd note of surprise in his voice.

"I'm leaving," I said.

I grabbed my purse.

"Wait, I'll call the driver," Matteo said, but Bianca let out a high-pitched wail, clutching his lapels.

"Don't leave me, Matteo! Please! The dark men are coming!"

Matteo looked at her, then at me.

"Go to the clinic, Sera," he said, his voice hardening. "I'll meet you there once she's calm."

I turned my back on them.

I walked out of the restaurant, the cold night air a brutal shock against my burned skin. In the car, I went to the bathroom, peeling the silk from my blistering skin under the harsh vanity lights. I stared at the angry red marks, another scar in a collection of them. I took out my phone and dialed a number I knew by heart.

"Papa," I said when he answered.

"Principessa? What's wrong?"

"He signed the papers again," I said, my voice cold and steady. "The eighteenth time. I can't do this anymore. This time, I want it to be real."

A heavy silence met my words.

"Are you sure?" he finally asked.

"Yes," I said, looking at my reflection. "This will be the last time."