Chapter 13 Seraphine
Silence settled over the table like a heavy wool blanket — thick, itchy, suffocating.
The kind of silence that made you hyper-aware of every scrape of a fork and every clink of glass in the restaurant.
Our drinks sat untouched.
Stephen stared at his beer bottle like it offended him.
Carol fussed with her napkin.
Rio just watched the table, unreadable but not unkind.
And me?
I stared at the condensation on my glass, tracing it with my finger while trying not to feel the burn of Carol’s earlier words echoing in my skull.
It was Stephen who finally broke the silence.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “Seraphine… did you get a chance to look over those files I sent?”
I stiffened.
My eyes flicked to Carol — still silently judging, still clenching her jaw — then back to my brother.
“I’d prefer not to talk about that in front of…” I gestured vaguely toward her, “…others.”
Carol let out a sharp, mocking laugh.
“Oh, please. Like I’m not sitting right here.”
Stephen frowned. “Carol, don’t start.”
She raised her hands in mock innocence. “I’m just saying — if she didn’t want people knowing she’s playing Nancy Drew, maybe she shouldn’t be dressing like a—”
Rio’s menu snapped shut. “Carol.”
But she kept going, “—like she’s trying out for some undercover role she’s clearly not built for.”
My stomach twisted.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked quietly.
Carol smiled sweetly — the kind of sweet that curdles.
“It means,” she said, leaning forward, “you’re walking around in a dress that clings to every lump and curve you’ve got. And then you order mashed potatoes and vodka like you’re not… you know.”
She waved vaguely at my body.
“I know… what?” I asked even though I already knew.
She arched a brow. “Bigger. You’re bigger, Seraphine. Everyone sees it. And normally, you do a pretty good job hiding it.”
Heat burned behind my eyes.
Stephen straightened in his seat. “Carol. Enough.”
But she wasn’t done — not even close.
“But tonight?” she continued, voice dripping with condescension. “You show up in something that tight and act like you’re confident. Like you can pull it off. And honestly… it’s just uncomfortable for everyone involved.”
My throat closed.
She kept talking.
“I mean, when you wear the sweaters and jeans, you look cute,” she said. “But this?”
She gestured to my outfit.
“This just reminds people how much weight you’ve put on. It’s distracting.”
I swallowed hard. “Distracting?”
“Yes!” She threw her hands up. “I mean, look at this dress. It’s straining. You look like you’re one deep breath away from tearing a seam.”
Rio muttered, “Jesus Christ…”
Carol didn’t hear him.
“And the boots?” she added. “Honey, thicker girls don’t wear ankle boots with dresses. It cuts your legs in half.”
Stephen slammed his hand down. “CAROL.”
She flinched but still argued.
“I’m just being honest! She shouldn’t wear things that draw attention to her size. It’s not flattering. And it’s not… appropriate.”
“Carol,” Stephen snapped, voice low and dangerous. “Enough.”
She ignored him.
“Honestly, Stephen, she’s being ridiculous. Acting like she’s got some big secret mission. I mean who’s going to trust her with something serious?”
The words hit harder than they should’ve.
Who’s going to trust her with something serious?
She knew nothing about what I was doing.
Nothing about the danger.
Nothing about the women going missing.
Before anyone else could speak, a voice cut through the restaurant like a blade sliding across glass.
“You should close your mouth.”
We all turned.
And my heart stopped.
Dante Vescari stood at the end of our table.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Black suit tailored to absolute perfection, the jacket framing a body carved like a sin. His shirt was charcoal, the top two buttons undone, revealing the edge of an intricate tattoo curling up the side of his neck. His hair was dark, thick, pushed back in a way that made him look effortlessly lethal.
His eyes — dark, molten, unreadable — were fixed on Carol like she was gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
He took one slow step closer.
“Because,” he continued, voice low and smooth, “every time you open it, something ugly falls out.”
Carol’s face drained of color.
Stephen stared at him like a man realizing death had just joined his dinner plans.
Rio actually sat up straighter.
Dante’s gaze flicked to Stephen next.
“You have my condolences,” he said.
“For being married to someone so loud, yet so tragically self-absorbed.”
Stephen choked on his beer.
Rio bit the inside of his cheek to hide a smile.
Carol sputtered, “I—EXCUSE ME?!”
Dante ignored her like she wasn’t worth the oxygen.
Then he turned to me.
And everything in me went still.
The fire behind his eyes softened — not much, but enough that I felt it like heat brushing across my skin.
He extended a hand toward me, palm up, steady, sure.
“Come sit with me, Seraphine.”
Just that.
Calm.
Command.
An invitation wrapped in authority.
The entire restaurant seemed to hold its breath.
I stared at his hand.
At him.
At the people around us whose conversations had stopped entirely.
I heard whispers.
“That’s Dante Vescari…”
“Oh my god, THE Dante? He owns half the luxury hotels on the West Coast—”
“He’s on Forbes’ top richest under forty—”
“He’s gorgeous, holy hell—”
He waited.
Not impatient.
Not pleading.
Just… certain.
And before I even fully realized what I was doing, I gently placed my hand in his.
Warm. Strong. Steady.
His fingers closed around mine, firm but careful, and he pulled me smoothly from the booth like he had always been meant to.
Carol let out an offended gasp.
Stephen just muttered, “What the actual hell…”
Rio’s eyebrows shot up.
As Dante guided me through the restaurant — every pair of eyes turning, tracking, whispering — I felt my pulse in my throat.
His presence wrapped around me like gravity.
Dominant.
Confident.
Unshakable.
He didn’t look back.
He didn’t hesitate.
He simply led — knowing I would follow.
We reached a private table in the far corner, draped in soft golden light from an overhead fixture. My jaw dropped a little when I saw what was already waiting there.
My cherry lime vodka soda.
My salmon with mashed potatoes.
Delivered.
Perfect.
Steaming.
As if this table had always been meant for me.
I looked up at him, stunned. “How…?”
“I asked the kitchen to move your order,” Dante said simply, guiding me into the chair with a touch at my lower back that sent sparks across my skin. “I don’t believe you should be eating with people who tear you down.”
My breath caught.
He took the seat across from me, posture relaxed but powerful, eyes never leaving mine.
“You deserve to be treated with respect,” he said quietly.
“And I do not tolerate anyone speaking to you the way she did.”
I swallowed hard. “You heard… everything?”
He nodded once. “I heard enough.”
Heat crept up my neck.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, voice rich and deep.
“You look beautiful tonight, Seraphine.”
My stomach flipped.
“And no one,” he added, his gaze sweeping over me with slow, deliberate appreciation,
“gets to diminish you. Not in my presence.”