My Husband Asked For A Second Wife (Serafina and Matteo) novel Chapter 9

Serafina

I’m sitting at a breakfast table that’s probably worth more than most people’s houses, staring across at a man who’s supposedly my father. And I’m supposed to call this place home now?

The villa—because let’s be honest, calling it a house would be like calling the Mona Lisa a doodle—is absolutely massive. Marble floors that stretch for miles, ceilings so high I’m getting vertigo, and enough chandeliers to light up Manhattan. It’s like someone took Versailles and said “needs more intimidation factor.”

Antonio Dorian sits across from me, and the resemblance is undeniable. Same dark eyes, same sharp cheekbones, same stubborn jawline. But he looks… fragile. Like someone drew him in pencil and then started erasing around the edges. The cancer, probably. It’s written all over him in the way he holds his coffee cup like it weighs fifty pounds.

“This is insane,” I mutter, cutting into what I think is the most expensive omelet in human history.

“What’s insane?” His voice is gravelly, like he’s been gargling glass.

“All of it. Yesterday I was sleeping in a servant’s room, and now I’m…” I gesture around the dining room that could host a small wedding. “Here. With you. And apparently there were photographers outside when I got here?”

He nods. “News travels fast in our world. Serafina Dorian returning from the dead makes headlines.”

“Serafina Dorian.” I test the name. “Still sounds like someone else.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

The cook appears—because of course there’s a cook—carrying a plate of what looks like Mediterranean heaven. Eggs, cheese, tomatoes, and a generous helping of olives scattered on top.

“No,” Antonio says immediately, holding up a hand. “She doesn’t eat olives.”

I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. “How do you know that?”

His expression softens in a way that makes my chest tight. “Your mother didn’t like olives. Said they reminded her of—”

“Sadness,” I finish, the word tumbling out of my mouth at the exact same time.

We stare at each other across the table. The silence stretches until it’s almost unbearable.

“How?” I whisper.

“She used to say bitter things shouldn’t be eaten for pleasure. That life was hard enough without adding unnecessary pain to your plate.”

I set my fork down. Hard. “Speaking of unnecessary pain—why did you let me suffer?”

His face goes stone cold. “Suffer?”

I try to process this. Don Verrelli, the ghost of the house, was protecting me because he loved his dead wife who was once my father’s sister. The mafia is basically one big, fucked-up soap opera.

“We need to hold a party tomorrow night,” Antonio says suddenly. “Introduce you to everyone. Let them see that the Dorian name isn’t just a memory anymore.”

“A party?”

“You’re the heir to one of the most powerful families on the East Coast. People need to see you, respect you, fear you.”

Before I can respond, he starts coughing. Not the polite, cover-your-mouth kind. The kind that sounds like his lungs are trying to escape through his throat.

“Shit.” I’m around the table in seconds, hand on his back. “Are you okay?”

When he pulls his hand away from his mouth, there’s blood. Bright red against his pale palm.

“I’m alright,” he lies, but he’s pulling out his wallet. “Here.” He hands me a black credit card. “Go buy something suitable to wear tomorrow. Something that says ‘I’m not fucking around.’”

I take the card, hands shaking. “Antonio—”

“Make them remember why they used to fear the Dorian name.”