The smell of pancakes drifted through the house, warm and sweet, pulling Serena from her dreams. Sunlight spilled across her bed in golden streams, and for a moment, life felt simple again. No shadows. No strange men in suits trailing her. No Dante. Just home.
When she padded into the kitchen, Jade was already seated at the counter, a glass of juice in hand, her dark curls tied up messily. Chloe stood at the stove, humming off-key as she flipped pancakes with exaggerated flair.
"Morning, sleeping beauty," Jade said with a smirk, her hand absently resting on the small swell of her stomach. "You missed the great pancake debate."
Serena blinked. "What debate?"
Chloe turned, spatula in hand. "Whether we should be making normal pancakes… or baby-shaped pancakes."
"Baby-shaped?" Serena asked, incredulous.
"Yep," Chloe said, flipping one with a flourish. "Little round ones, you know, practice for when Jade's tiny prince arrives."
Jade groaned. "I told her it's too early to call it a Prince."
"Please," Chloe scoffed. "It's a boy. I can feel it in my bones,it will be nice to have a boy around here.Then we can tease him about girls."
Serena laughed, sliding onto the stool beside Jade. "And what if it's a girl?"
"Then we send her back and ask for a refund," Chloe deadpanned, earning an eye-roll from Jade.
Serena reached for a pancake, warmth filling her chest as she watched her friends bicker. In moments like this, the world outside didn't matter. It was just them—the girls who'd become her family.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. A message from Ethan lit up the screen: "Last night was perfect. Can't stop thinking about you."
Serena's lips curved softly, but before she could reply, her mother's voice floated in from the living room.
"Serena, don't forget you promised to run errands with me today," she called.
"Got it, Mom!" Serena shouted back, slipping her phone into her pocket. She glanced at Jade and Chloe. "Guess I'm busy today."
Jade smirked. "Busy being the perfect daughter and perfect girlfriend. Multitasking queen."
Serena nudged her playfully. "Says the future mom."
The girls laughed again, the sound bouncing easily through the kitchen.
But outside, across the street, a sleek black car sat idling. Behind the tinted glass, two men watched the house with patient eyes, radios silent. Their orders had been simple.
"Don't lose sight of her."
And somewhere high above the city, Dante sat in his office, Andres sprawled across the sofa with his feet up, both men tracking her every move on the reports coming in.
Dante's eyes lingered on the photo of Serena walking into her kitchen that morning, caught by a long lens. A rare softness touched his face before he masked it again.
"She laughs too easily," Dante muttered, almost to himself.
Andres glanced at him. "And you like it too much."
Dante didn't answer.
Because deep down, Andres was right.
The sun was already climbing higher when Serena and her mother stepped out, grocery bags in hand. The marketplace buzzed with Saturday life—vendors shouting about fresh tomatoes, the smell of roasted corn filling the air, children darting between stalls with sticky fingers.
Her mother adjusted her shawl, her sharp eyes scanning the produce like a seasoned detective. "These look fresher," she murmured, squeezing a tomato. "Vale used to say never trust the first stall you see. Always check the second."
At the mention of her father's name, Serena's chest tightened. She didn't say anything, just watched her mother's fingers linger a moment too long on the tomato before placing it back.
"Mom," Serena said softly, "do you miss him every day?"
Her mother paused, meeting her daughter's eyes. For a moment, grief flickered—raw, unhidden. Then she exhaled slowly. "Every single one," she admitted. "But I see him in you, and it makes it bearable."
Serena swallowed the lump in her throat and smiled faintly, though her heart ached.
They moved through the market, laughter spilling out when Serena accidentally knocked over a stack of apples and scrambled to put them back while the vendor shook his head. By the time they finished, their arms were full and their spirits lighter.
But neither noticed the black car a few rows down, the man leaning casually against it, sunglasses hiding his eyes while he murmured into his comm.
"She's with the mother. Heading west toward the bakery."
Inside Dante's office, Andres popped a grape into his mouth, scrolling through the incoming feed on a tablet. "There she goes again. Grocery run. Totally thrilling stuff." He smirked. "Boss, if this is your big master plan, I've got to admit—kinda boring."
Dante didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the live photo snapped seconds ago—Serena holding a bag of bread, head tilted back as she laughed at something her mother said. Sunlight caught in her hair, making it look like spun gold.
Andres noticed the silence. He leaned forward, mischief in his grin. "Careful, Dante. You stare at her picture like that any longer, I'll start thinking you've gone soft."
Dante's jaw ticked, but he stayed quiet.
The walk back home was quieter. Serena's mother chatted lightly about dinner plans, but Serena found herself glancing over her shoulder more than once. The marketplace noises faded behind them, replaced by the rhythmic crunch of their footsteps on the pavement.
Halfway down their street, Serena paused, frowning.
"What is it?" her mother asked.
Serena hesitated. "I don't know. It's just—" She shook her head. "It feels like someone's watching."
Her mother's brow creased, but she tried to smile it off. "Probably just your imagination. You've been… under a lot of stress lately."
"Yeah," Serena murmured, though her stomach still twisted. She adjusted the bag in her hands and forced herself to keep walking.
From across the road, a man leaned casually against a lamppost, pretending to scroll through his phone. To anyone else, he looked harmless—just another passerby killing time. But the subtle nod he gave to the car at the corner told another story.
The black vehicle pulled away slowly, blending into the hum of traffic.
Inside, Dante received the final update for the day. His men reported: "Target back home. All clear."
He leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass, his mind replaying Serena's laughter at the market, the fleeting way her eyes seemed to search for something she couldn't see.
Andres stretched with a yawn. "She's safe at home. Again. Boring report, boss. You can breathe now."
But Dante's gaze was distant, his voice low.
"She can feel it," he murmured.
Andres glanced at him. "Feel what?"
"That I'm coming."