The Girl They Never Asked For

Serena:

The sky wept for her.

Gray clouds hung low over the cemetery, bloated with the kind of grief that didn't make a sound—just pressed heavily against your skin until you couldn't breathe. The rain hadn't started, not yet. But the air was swollen with the threat of it. Like something was holding its breath.

Like me.

I stood alone beside the casket, black veil slipping in the wind, fists clenched around the stems of white lilies. They cut into my palms, but I welcomed the sting. It was real.

Unlike the whispers behind me.

"Who even is she?"

"Her daughter. From that affair."

"Why would he send a car for her?"

He. Vincenzo Romano.

Mafia king. Ruthless, untouchable. The man my mother gave everything to… including her life. I hated him. I'd never even seen his face.

Until now.

A black limousine pulled up at the edge of the cemetery, doors opening with smooth finality. I felt it before I saw it—the shift in energy, the subtle tightening of the mourners' mouths. Like wolves scenting a storm.

He stepped out first. Older now than the photograph I'd seen buried in my mother's drawer. Graying temples. Cold black eyes. Tailored charcoal suit and the aura of a man who didn't walk—he claimed space.

Vincenzo Romano.

And behind him, they followed.

Three shadows made flesh.

The Romanos.

My stepbrothers.

Luca. Nico. Matteo.

I didn't know their names at the time. Only the way the air bent around them. The way people looked away when they passed. The oldest walked in front, sharp-suited and wearing a blood-red tie. His jaw was a razor line of power, lips unreadable. He didn't look at me.

The middle one… he did. Smirked, actually. Like my grief amused him. A dimple in one cheek, dark eyes full of trouble. He winked.

And the last—tall, lean, quiet. Hands in his pockets. Watching everything. Including me.

My breath caught.

"You Serena Vale?" Vincenzo asked.

I turned slowly. "Yes."

He looked down at the casket. "She was a beautiful woman. Too soft for this world."

My throat tightened. "She died because of you."

A silence fell like thunder. Even the wind stopped moving.

His jaw ticked once. "You're her daughter. That makes you mine."

"No," I spat. "I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's."

The middle son—Nico, I would later learn—chuckled low. "Feisty."

"Enough," Luca snapped. Just one word, sharp and deep like gravel. The others went still.

I turned away from all of them, gripping the edge of the coffin. The priest resumed his prayer, but I didn't hear a word. My pulse was in my ears. My heart was somewhere shattered inside my chest.

They buried her under gray light and cracked sky.

When the last shovel of dirt fell, Vincenzo came to me again.

"You have no home left, girl. The state will take you. Or worse."

"Better than your world."

"My sons will protect you."

I laughed. Bitter. "Is that a threat?"

He didn't answer. Just handed me an envelope. Inside was a plane ticket, a passport, and one line in perfect cursive:

Come home. Or be hunted.

I should've burned it.

I should've stayed away.

But when the rain started, and I stood soaked and shaking at the edge of the grave, I knew the truth.

There was no one left.

And for better or worse, the Romanos had come for me.

The jet smelled like leather and silence.

For six hours, I sat in a seat that was too soft, surrounded by shadows, dressed in Armani, and cold indifference. The Romano sons hadn't said a word to me since takeoff—not that I cared. I didn't want to speak. Not to them.

Especially not to Luca.

He sat directly across from me, legs spread, suit jacket unbuttoned like he owned the air between us. He hadn't looked at me once, not even when the stewardess poured him whiskey he didn't drink.

But I felt him watching. With every breath I took, every time I crossed or uncrossed my legs, I felt it.

His silence was louder than Nico's smirk or Matteo's quiet glances.

It was… unnerving.

By the time the plane landed on the private Romano estate airstrip, I was raw. Empty. And exhausted in a way sleep couldn't touch.

The car that picked us up was black and bulletproof. Nico climbed in beside me, arm slung lazily over the seat behind my shoulders like we were on a date. His cologne was spice and sin. His grin was even worse.

"You always look this pretty after funerals?" he asked.

I stiffened. "Do you always make jokes when someone buries their mother?"

He shrugged. "It's either laugh or shoot something."

"Try laughing quietly."

Matteo sat across from us, earbuds in, one foot bouncing in a nervous rhythm. He hadn't said a word since we met. But his eyes… they found me when he thought I wasn't looking. Deep, storm-gray. The kind of eyes you didn't forget.

And Luca? Still silent. Still brooding. Still watching. He looked like a sin in human form—shirt collar open, forearms tense where they rested against his knees. Like he was one breath away from snapping.

I wasn't sure if I wanted him to.

The Romano estate was more fortress than home.

Stone walls. Iron gates. Security cameras that blinked like eyes. The mansion loomed in the distance, black glass and sharp corners against a storm-colored sky. Trees flanked the drive like soldiers.

"This place looks like it eats people," I murmured.

"It does," Nico said. "Welcome home."

I followed them inside, suitcase in hand, pretending like my heart wasn't clawing at my ribs. Marble floors stretched beneath my boots, cold and echoing. A crystal chandelier dangled like the sword of Damocles above the entryway.

And then—him.

Vincenzo Romano descended the staircase like a shadow turned flesh, a black coat trailing behind him. His eyes flicked over me once before landing on his sons.

"She's under your protection now," he said to Luca. "Keep her alive."

That was it. No hug. No welcome. Just a command.

Luca nodded once.

"But she doesn't follow orders," Nico said with a grin.

"Then teach her." Vincenzo's gaze snapped back to me. "Disobey, and you die."

My lips curled. "Such warm hospitality."

He left just like that.

They showed me to my room. Top floor. West wing. Far from theirs.

The bedroom was massive—bigger than my mother's entire apartment. All silver and stormy blue. The bed looked like it hadn't been slept in for years. Like no one dared.

I dropped my suitcase and turned to Luca, who hadn't said a damn word all day.

"What am I to you?" I asked.

His brows lifted slightly.

"Some charity case? A pet project? A debt you're paying off for your father?"

He took one slow step toward me. Then another. The air shifted. Thickened.

"You're a problem," he said.

My breath caught.

"But I'm very good at handling problems."

He was close now. Too close. I could see the flecks of gold in his irises. Smell the scent of smoke and rain clinging to his skin.

"Stay out of my way, Serena," he said quietly. "And out of my bed."

The door shut behind him before I could speak.

That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, my pulse trembling in my throat.

This was my life now.

The mansion. The Mafia. The wolves.

And three stepbrothers who didn't just want to protect me—

They wanted to own me.