SERAFINA’S POV
We landed in Nice, France, just before midnight. The air outside was cool and crisp, laced with the scent of expensive cigars and foreign arrogance. Our driver—a middle-aged man with too many rings and too few teeth—was holding a sign that read: S. V. Not even Serafina Valentino, just S. V. Like I was some package to be picked up.
"Charming," I muttered under my breath.
"You insisted on flying commercial," Alonzo said with a smirk, slinging my luggage into the back of the black Bentley.
"I didn’t insist on anything," I shot back. "I was drugged with a croissant and dragged here against my will."
"That’s called breakfast," he replied. "And you're welcome."
We were taken to a sleek, glass-walled hotel that screamed money laundering. The kind of place where shady business
