Chapter 4

Seraphina POV:

The silence held for all of thirty seconds. My phone buzzed again, this time from an unknown number. The message was short, its tone arrogant.

Grand Hyatt. Presidential Suite, 8808. Dante's here with me. Come and see for yourself.

Isabella.

Her persistence was almost amusing. She wasn't content with a private victory; she needed an audience. She wanted to see me break.

An idea, cold and sharp, crystalized in my mind. She wanted a show? I would give her one.

I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number for an information broker who owed me a favor.

I need the WhatsApp for Rocco Moretti, I typed. Isabella Falcone's fiancé.

The reply was immediate.

Crashing the party?

I'm sending him a gift, I wrote back.

A contact card appeared on my screen. I added Rocco. He accepted instantly-a man who was clearly always on alert.

Without a word of greeting, I forwarded him the photo of Isabella and Dante in bed. Then, I sent the voice recording of Dante's drunken confession.

My phone rang before the second message even registered as 'read'.

I answered.

"Who is this?" Rocco's voice was tight-a low growl of controlled fury. "Where did you get this?"

"My name is Seraphina," I said calmly. "And your fiancée is currently with my ex-boyfriend in Suite 8808 at the Grand Hyatt. I believe she's waiting for us to catch them in the act."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, then a long, heavy silence as he fought for control.

When he spoke again, his voice was dangerously level.

"Your address."

"I'll meet you downstairs. I just need to get changed."

I hung up and strode to my closet. I pulled on a black tracksuit and running shoes, tying my hair back in a severe ponytail.

Staring back at me from the mirror was a stranger. Her eyes were calm, but there was a deadly glint in their depths.

This wasn't about jealousy anymore. This was about honor-his, and mine.

Downstairs, a black Maybach idled at the curb, its engine a low purr. Rocco leaned against it, a mountain of a man dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that did little to hide the raw power coiled beneath.

Our eyes met, and in that instant, an unspoken understanding passed between us.

We were strangers bound by betrayal, now the most synchronized of allies.

At the hotel, Rocco didn't need to cause a scene. A quiet word with the night manager and a flash of something in his wallet secured a spare keycard for Suite 8808.

Standing outside the door, I could hear Isabella's high-pitched laughter from within. The sound grated down my spine.

I looked at Rocco and gestured towards the door, giving him the lead.

He nodded grimly.

I pulled out my phone and hit record.

With a soft beep, the lock disengaged.

Rocco thrust the door open, and we stormed into the suite.