Veins of Vengeance

SERAPHINA'S POVNo, he's lying! He has to be! There's NO WAY dad would agree to anything this maniac has to say!I'm burning with rage and a slight wave of dread as I marched into the mansion, my hands curling tightly around the phone in my grip. It doesn't feel that Lazaro's tailing behind, both hands tucked into his pockets as his stupid gorgeous hazel eyes narrow at my back with amusement.He finds this funny, but I find it absolutely NOT.“I'm here to see my dad.” I inform the guards standing outside his study room, gritting my teeth towards Lazaro's direction. “He's…a guest.”They don't question me or try to wonder what my dad's biggest rival is doing in the middle of the hallway, and simply nod in understanding, slightly moving to the side as they push the big black doors for us.Does dad already know I'm coming…with him? What's happening?I inhale sharply, taking a quick intake of air and try my best to lift my head high as I walked into the room. The air is suddenly filled with

Seraphina’s POV “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we have to get to the fitting right about now.” I look up from the magazine I’d grabbed off the dining table on my way out, after breakfast, my eyes boring into the face of the mid-twenties maid in aprons. “What fitting?” I demanded, completely clueless. “For the..wedding dress?” She answered, the slight cock of her brows indicating her uncertainty and confusion. I furrow my brows in confusion and curiosity, slapping the magazine shut. “I never gave out my measurements, so,” I folded my arms, “how did you get it?” “U-uhm,” the maid stuttered, licking my lips, “I don’t really know, ma’am.” And she really seems like she doesn’t. “It’s just..” she continued, “Mr. Lazaro said to inform you when it’s time for the fitting. I’m just doing as he said.” Lazaro did? Did he make me a dress without my permission? Sighing in disbelief, I throw my head backwards, squeezing my eyes shut. Just why in the world is this happening? Is this all beca

Seraphina's POV I knew that vodka was a bad idea. Taking Vodka with a certain De Luca on the loose was certainly a bad idea. I should've checked on the doors before deciding to drown myself in my misery. But it wasn't like I was planning on having anyone storm through my door like they had their pants on fire! God, I can't believe the things I told him! That I did! I pressed my palms to my flushed face, visibly shaking away the mocking flashbacks of my seduction to Lazaro. The most painful one of them all was the most unspeakable challenge I'd given him. To come after my pussy. My face turned even more red in embarrassment and I groaned even loudly, tossing the pillows in my laps aside as they did nothing to cover my shame. There was no way I did that! Even if I was intoxicated, he must have slipped something in the vodka! Now that I think about it, he walked in without permission! That asshole! Alright, calm down Seraphina. The last thing you need now is another per

Seraphina’s POV I saunter back into the lobby, my heart thrashing wildly in my chest. I glance back at the musical theater, checking to see if he had followed me out. Why does he keep getting in my freaking space and shaking up my nerves? Putting his hands on me like that…on my face…awakening thrills in the pit of my stomach. Who said he could do that? Why does goosebumps scatter across my skin each time he’s near me? It surely is irritation, right? It has to be that, and nothing else. I couldn’t be reacting to those hazel brown eyes, no matter how striking they are. And I’m definitely not reacting to that predator smirk either. I’m simply irritated at even the thought of being married to him. Simply for peace to reign. And how the hell did he plan to protect me from being hurt ever again? This is the mafia! This whole thing. Sighing deeply, I rake my fingers through my waves of dark hair, stomping up the stairs to my room. As I breeze through the corridor that led up to

Seraphina’s POV I walk into the dimly lit yard on Lazaro’s arm, adjusting the black, body-con dress I had on. I hold my head up with a smile, only because my father sat at the table with a glaring smile on his lips, watching me like a predator, and not because Lazaro had instructed earlier that I do so. As we approach the table, Lazaro’s father, Don Julio, keeps his gaze intent on my face, a somewhat displeased look dancing across it. What is it, this time? Pulling out a seat at the table, Lazaro gently nudges me forward, and set me down, then he equally plops down on the seat next to me, scooting closer. “You’re both late,” Don Julio, Lazaro’s father, comments, as soon as we settle in, keeping his displeased gaze on my face. “This is not—“ “The dinner hasn’t even commenced properly, father,” Lazaro interrupts in a blunt tone, leveling his gaze on his father’s face, “please,” he added in a quieter tone, “give it a rest.” Don Julio glares at him for a moment, saying nothing, bef