Chapter 3 - The Garden of SerpentsThe glass doors slid shut behind them, cutting off the muffled strains of the waltz and the murmur of three hundred sharks wearing tuxedos.
The Duca estate terrace was a masterpiece of moonlight and shadows. Below them, the cypress trees stood like silent sentinels, their dark needles whispering in the midnight breeze. The marble balustrade was cold beneath Lorenzo’s palm as he stared out over the vast, manicured lawns that stretched toward the iron gates.
Serena stepped up beside him, her red velvet gown pooling around her ankles like spilled blood. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against his chest.
It was a pose designed for anyone watching from the ballroom windows—a picture of romantic devotion beneath the stars.
"You've been distant all evening, my love," she murmured, her voice soft, carrying a honeyed poison that he could now smell beneath her expensive French perfume. "Are you having second thoughts about us? About the merger?"
Lorenzo didn't move. He let her stay there, feeling the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing. It was fascinating, really. How a human being could stand against another human being, holding a dagger to their throat while whispering sweet nothingness into their ear.
"Second thoughts?" Lorenzo’s voice was dangerously calm. "Never, Serena. A Duca doesn't go back on his word. Especially not when the prize is as... exceptional... as you."
She smiled against his chest, missing the lethal chill in his tone. "Good. Because tomorrow, everything changes. The families unite. New York will belong to us."
"To us," Lorenzo echoed quietly.
He reached up, his fingers gently tangling into the soft dark waves of her hair. She sighed, leaning into his touch, completely unaware that his thumb was slowly tracing the exact spot on her neck where her pulse hammered against her skin.
"You know," Lorenzo continued, his voice dropping to a low, hypnotic hum, "my father taught me a valuable lesson when I was a boy. He told me that in our world, trust is a currency. You only spend it once."
Serena stiffened slightly. The softness in her posture vanished, replaced instantly by the rigid alertness of a cornered animal. She pulled back just an inch, looking up into his face.
"Why are you talking like that?"
Lorenzo looked down at her. The ringing in his ears was deafening now, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the night wind, but her eyes—wide, calculating, and suddenly terrified—were crystal clear.
"I was thinking about my health, Serena," Lorenzo said, his gaze locking onto hers. "For four months, my ears have been ringing. My hands have been going numb. I thought it was stress. I thought I was getting old."
Serena’s breath hitched. She didn't speak, but her pupils dilated, the color draining from her cheeks beneath her carefully applied makeup.
"And then," Lorenzo whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of her ear, "I realized something remarkable. Whenever I drank the wine you so lovingly handed me... the symptoms got worse."
Silence descended on the terrace, heavier than the marble pillars holding up the roof.
For three long seconds, Serena didn't move. Then, with a sudden, violent jerk, she tried to step back, her hand flashing toward the small evening clutch hanging from her wrist—where Lorenzo knew, with absolute certainty, a backup syringe or a capsule vial was hidden.
She was fast.
Lorenzo was faster.
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His hand shot out like a striking viper, clamping around her wrist with the crushing force of a vice. The clutch slipped from her fingers, hitting the marble floor with a dull thud.
"Don't," Lorenzo whispered, his voice dark as the grave. "You're a Romano, Serena. Act like it. Don't die screaming."
