No Next Life For The Don

Serafina POV

Cassio stared at the topography of my ruined skin.

All the color drained from his face, leaving him looking like a sculpted ghost carved from ash.

His dark eyes darted from the angry, puckered burn marks on my stomach to the jagged scars running along my ribs.

His chest stopped moving.

His mind, I could see it, was at war with itself—the lies he had believed for two years crashing against the undeniable evidence carved into my flesh. He wanted to look away. Looking away would have been easier. But his eyes kept returning to the scars, as if they were a language he was desperately trying to unlearn.

"Camilla went to the Chicago Boss," he said, his voice tight and uneven with a desperate tremor. "She sold her innocence to secure the truce and my release. She took the punishment meant for our family."

I stared at him for a long, hollow moment.

Then, I started to laugh.

It started as a low chuckle in the back of my throat and grew into a harsh, echoing sound that scraped against the walls of the quiet, luxurious suite.

Hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

"A low-level associate manipulated a Mafia war?" I mocked, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. "A girl who used to fetch my coats walked into the Chicago Outfit and demanded a truce? I am a Romano. I am the daughter of a Capo. And you think they gave me a free pass while they tortured a nobody?"

Cassio's jaw clenched so hard I heard the grinding of enamel.

A flicker of deep, unsettling confusion crossed his dark eyes, at war with the lies he had been fed.

He closed the distance in a single stride, his palm landing hard against my collarbone.

"You are lying," he growled, shaking me slightly. "You are violating Omertà by spreading poison against the woman who saved me. Camilla is pure. She is untainted. Look at you."

The unforgiving edge of the mahogany desk met the small of my back, sending a sharp, electric pain up my spine.

Cassio crowded in, pressing his large, muscular frame against mine.

I could feel the heat radiating from his body—a terrifying mix of blinding hatred and raw, undeniable lust.

His hands gripped my waist, his calloused fingers digging into my hips.

He kissed me.

It was not a kiss of love; it was a violent clash of teeth and bruised lips, a punishment meant to assert his dominance.

I did not close my eyes.

I let him take what he wanted, my body rigid and unresponsive under his.

He spun me around, forcing my chest flat against the polished wood of the desk.

He grabbed the back of my uniform and ripped the rest of the fabric down, the sound of tearing seams loud in the tense air.

As my bare, ruined back was exposed to the harsh overhead lights, Cassio stopped dead.

He let out a sound that was half-roar, half-sob.

"Dirty," he spat, his voice trembling with an emotion he could not control.

He grabbed my shoulders and flipped me over so I was facing him again.

He looked down at my face, searching for the girl he used to know.

A single, silent tear slipped from my eye and tracked down my pale cheek.

Cassio stared at that lone tear.

It seemed to burn him worse than any hellfire.

He stumbled backward, staggering as if he had been struck, putting distance between us.

He tore off his tailored suit jacket and threw it at me.

"Cover yourself," he demanded, turning his back to me. "I cannot look at what you have become."

I pulled his jacket over my shivering shoulders.

It smelled of his expensive, woodsy cologne and the sharp tang of gunpowder.

It was a scent that used to mean safety.

Now, it just made me nauseous.

Cassio reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick, heavy stack of cash.

It was banded in black paper—the universal sign of Syndicate blood money.

He tossed it over his shoulder.

The heavy stack hit the desk and slid to the floor, landing at my feet like an insult.

"Take it, Canary," he said, branding me with the degrading street name the club patrons used. "Buy yourself something pretty."

I dropped to my knees and gathered the cash.

I stacked the bills neatly, my movements numb and mechanical.

"Thank you, Don Moretti," I said, my voice perfectly, hollowly submissive.

Cassio did not look back.

He walked to the door, unlocked it, and walked out without another word.

I sat on the floor, clutching the blood money to my chest.

The door clicked shut, sealing my isolation.

A few minutes later, Madam Rosa walked in, her heels clicking against the hardwood.

She looked at the money in my hands and smiled a knowing, predatory smile.

"The other girls downstairs are celebrating for you," Rosa said, leaning against the doorframe. "They think the Don finally took pity on you and threw you a massive severance payout just to get rid of you. Or perhaps they think one of the rival Capos slipped it to you before the massacre downstairs."

I slowly stood up, my joints aching.

I walked over to the small, inconspicuous wall safe hidden behind a vintage painting.

I opened it and tossed Cassio's money inside.

It landed on top of massive, banded stacks of bills I had accumulated over two agonizing years of hell.

I did not tell the other girls that the payout was blood money thrown at me by the husband who had just discarded me.

"I have the ten million," I said, my gaze fixed on Rosa. "I am buying my freedom from the Famiglia."

Rosa crossed her arms, her smile fading into a grim, serious line.

"I will take the payout, Serafina. But money only buys the ticket. If you want to officially leave the Syndicate alive, you have to survive the Underworld Auction tomorrow night."

Survive. The word was almost funny. I had survived two years in her basement. One more night in a room full of the men who had paid to destroy me—what was one more night, when I had already lost everything?