Chapter 8 - Seraphine
The first thing I felt when I woke up was the dull ache behind my eyes—the kind that comes from not sleeping and thinking too much. My dreams had been a blur of music, smoke, and golden eyes. Every time I blinked, I could still hear that whisper against the glass.
I told myself it had to have been my imagination.
I told myself a lot of things lately.
I pushed myself out of bed and got dressed—dark jeans, a cream sweater that hung off one shoulder, and the black leather jacket Amara had convinced me to buy. My hair was still a little wild from sleep, so I twisted it into a loose bun and dabbed on just enough mascara to look awake.
Today was supposed to be simple.
Coffee first. Then I’d dive into the files Stephen had sent me and start making sense of this chaos.
Except… nothing about my life was simple anymore.
When I opened my apartment door, the smell hit me first. Roses. Deep, intoxicating, heavy with sweetness.
I froze.
Sitting right on my doorstep was a bouquet so massive it could’ve doubled as a small tree. Black and red roses—at least fifty of them—arranged in a glass vase tied with black silk ribbon.
A note dangled from one stem.
And underneath it… a photo.
My photo.
I stared at it, my stomach turning to ice. The picture was from last year’s charity broadcast—me on the local news, smiling in front of a banner for the Children’s Cancer Fund. My hair had been shorter then, my makeup lighter. It was a photo that shouldn’t have meant anything. But the fact that someone had found it—and paired it with flowers on my doorstep—made my skin crawl.
I pulled everything inside with shaking hands. The roses were beautiful—terrifyingly so. I set them on the kitchen table, filled the vase with water, and just stared at them.
The note was written in black ink, the handwriting elegant and precise.
> I looked you up.
—D.
My breath caught.
Dante.
Of course it was him. I sank into a chair, heart hammering.
I crumpled the note and the photo and threw them both in the trash. But I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of the roses. They were too beautiful—each petal like velvet dipped in midnight. Keeping them didn’t make sense, but it was easier than admitting they scared me.
So instead, I plucked one perfect red rose from the bouquet and decided to take it with me to the coffee shop. Maybe I just needed normal. A walk, caffeine, and a reminder that life still existed outside of serect clubs and deliciously dangerous men.
The morning air was crisp as I headed down the street, the rose twirling between my fingers. The city was waking up—cars honking, shop doors unlocking, people rushing to work with phones pressed to their ears.
I caught a few lingering glances as I passed by. My mind immediately went to the worst place. They’re staring because of your hips. Because of your stomach.
I shook it off. Probably just the flower. Or my paranoia. Or both.
The coffee shop’s bell chimed as I walked in. The familiar warmth and the smell of roasted beans wrapped around me like a comfort blanket.
I ordered my regular—blended mocha, extra whipped cream, and a cream cheese puff pastry—and waited while the barista, a sweet kid with tired eyes and too many pins on his apron, prepared it. He glanced at the rose in my hand, curious.
“Beautiful,” he said.
“You want it?” I asked without thinking.
His eyes widened. “Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“Take it,” I said, smiling softly. “It’ll look better with someone who appreciates it.”
He hesitated, then accepted it carefully, like it might break. “Thank you,” he said. “You have no idea how much I needed that today.”
I sat in my usual corner, sipping my coffee and pretending to scroll through my phone. A few minutes later, I caught sight of the barista handing the rose to a girl who’d just walked in. His crush, judging by the way his whole face lit up. She smiled, tucked the rose behind her ear, and laughed.
Something warm twisted in my chest.
Maybe the world wasn’t completely awful after all.
I thought about the rest of the bouquet waiting at home and decided maybe I could share those, too. Turn something unsettling into something good.
But the moment I got back to my apartment, all that optimism shattered.
Because there was another bouquet waiting by my door.
This one was entirely black.
Dozens of obsidian-colored roses, arranged neatly in the same kind of vase, tied with the same ribbon.
My throat went dry.
There was another note.
> I don’t share what’s mine.
My heart stopped.
I dropped the flowers, rushed inside, and slammed the door shut. Every lock clicked into place, every window latched. I could feel my pulse in my throat.
I didn’t know whether to scream or cry.
After pacing the room until my legs ached, I finally told myself over and over that I was fine. It was just intimidation. Just control. Just a test.
And I didn’t break easily.
Then, without thinking, I moved.
I grabbed the vase of red and black roses from the table—water sloshing over my hands—and marched to the door. I opened it just long enough to snatch the new bouquet off the porch. Both vases were heavy, but adrenaline made me stronger.
I carried them straight to the dumpster behind the building, lifted the lid, and threw them in.
They landed with a hollow thud against the metal, the petals scattering like dark confetti.
“Not today,” I muttered. “Not ever.”
When I got back inside, I locked the door again and double-checked every window.
I sat down at my desk, opened my laptop, and pulled up Stephen’s files.
Photos. Reports. Redacted pages. I clicked through them with trembling hands, forcing myself to focus.
That’s when I found it.
Not just Dante. Not just Lucian.
Five.
Five men. Five bloodlines.
Five mafia empires carved into the city like territories of a map no one else could see.
Dante Vescari wasn’t just dangerous—he was one of the Five Kings.
And I had just caught the one of the King’s attention.