CHAPTER 15
SIENNA
I woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and the quiet, rhythmic sound of a pen scratching against paper.
I didn't open my eyes immediately. I lay perfectly still, letting my senses map the environment.
The mattress was firmer than the one in the guest room.
The sheets smelled like cedar and expensive laundry detergent.
The heavy, suffocating panic that had been sitting on my chest for the last three days was entirely gone.
I shifted, the muscles in my lower back pulling with a dull, entirely pleasant ache.
"You’re awake."
Dante’s voice was low, carrying that familiar, gravelly rasp that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up.
I opened my eyes and rolled onto my back.
Dante was sitting in a dark leather armchair near the window.
He was wearing black trousers and a simple black t-shirt that stretched tightly across his chest, exposing the edge of the white bandage I had taped to his bicep last night.
A stack of files rested on the small table next to him, along with a silver carafe of coffee.
He wasn't looking at the files. He was looking at me.
"What time is it?" I asked, my voice thick with sleep. I pulled the dark duvet up to my collarbone, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that I was completely naked underneath it.
"Just past nine," Dante replied, setting his pen down. "You slept through the landing, the drive back to the estate, and the shift change of the perimeter guards."
I blinked, my brain struggling to catch up. I remembered the flight back from Florida. I remembered leaning against his shoulder in the back of the SUV, the exhaustion finally pulling me under.
"How did I get upstairs?" I asked.
A slow, wicked smile touched the corner of Dante’s mouth. "I carried you."
The image of the terrifying, lethal Don of New York carrying his sleeping wife past his armed guards sent a sudden, entirely inappropriate flush of heat straight to my cheeks.
"You could have woken me up," I muttered, sitting up slightly and wrapping the duvet tighter around myself.
"I could have," Dante agreed, standing up and walking toward the bed. "But you looked peaceful. It is a rare expression on you."
He stopped at the edge of the mattress. He didn't reach for me immediately. He just looked down, his amber eyes tracking the messy knot of my hair, the flush on my cheeks, and the tight grip I had on the blankets.
"How is your arm?" I asked, needing to break the heavy, charged silence.
"Sore," he admitted smoothly. "But functional."
He reached out, his large hand cupping the side of my face.
His thumb brushed against my cheekbone, the calloused skin slightly rough.
The gesture was so casual, so inherently intimate, that it made my breath catch.
Last night was fueled by adrenaline, grief, and desperation. This morning was quiet. Real.
"Elena brought breakfast up for Clara an hour ago," Dante told me, his thumb continuing its slow, mesmerizing sweep across my skin. "She is eating. The doctor checked on her again. The bruising looks worse today, but there is no structural damage."
"Thank you," I whispered.
"I told you last night, Sienna." Dante leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. "You don't need to thank me for protecting what is mine."
He pulled back, his expression shifting from intimate to tactical in the span of a single heartbeat.
"I have a meeting with the Capos in thirty minutes," he said, stepping away from the bed. "The Petrovs lost their distribution centers and the ten million. They are bleeding cash. I expect them to reach out to negotiate a ceasefire by this afternoon."
"Will you give it to them?" I asked.
"If the terms are acceptable," Dante replied, grabbing a dark suit jacket from the back of a chair. "War is expensive. I have no interest in fighting a prolonged battle over a debt that isn't mine."
He slipped the jacket on, wincing slightly as the fabric pulled against his injured arm.
"There are fresh clothes for you in the closet," he added, walking toward the heavy oak door. "Elena moved your things from the guest room this morning."
I stopped breathing. "She moved my things?"
Dante paused, his hand resting on the brass door handle. He looked back at me, his eyes entirely serious. "You are my wife. You don't sleep in the guest wing."
He didn't wait for my response. He opened the door and stepped out, the heavy deadbolt clicking into place behind him.
I sat in the massive bed, staring at the closed door.
You don't sleep in the guest wing.
The boundary had been completely erased. I wasn't just a political prisoner anymore. I was the lady of the house.
I threw the duvet off and walked into the massive walk-in closet.
Dante wasn't lying. My meager collection of clothes had been neatly hung next to his expensive, tailored suits.
My single pair of sneakers sat next to a row of polished Italian leather shoes.
It looked ridiculous. It looked permanent.
I grabbed a pair of dark jeans and a plain white t-shirt. I didn't care about dressing up. I had survived a mafia war in sweatpants; I wasn't going to start wearing ballgowns now.
After a quick shower, I walked out of the master suite.
The two guards stationed in the hallway snapped to attention the second I opened the door. They didn't look at the floor this time. They looked straight ahead, their posture rigid.
"Good morning, Mrs. Morretti," the guard on the right said.
I recognized him. It was the same guard I had ordered to fetch Elena yesterday.
"Good morning," I replied, keeping my voice steady. "Where is my sister?"
"West wing, second door on the left," the guard answered immediately.
I nodded and walked down the hall. The house felt different today. The suffocating tension of the lockdown was still there, but the frantic, panicked edge was gone. Dante had struck back, and his men were operating with the quiet confidence of a winning army.
I knocked softly on the door of Clara’s room.
"Come in," her voice called out.
I pushed the door open. Clara was sitting in a plush armchair by the window, a half-eaten plate of toast and fruit resting on a tray next to her.
She was wearing one of Dante’s oversized t-shirts, her dark hair pulled back into a loose braid.
The bruise on her face was a vivid, angry purple, but the raw terror I had seen in her eyes yesterday was fading.
"Hey," I said, walking over and sitting on the edge of the bed facing her. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck," Clara admitted, offering a small, crooked smile. "But better."
She looked at me, her eyes dropping to my plain t-shirt and jeans, and then to the heavy platinum ring on my hand.
"Elena said Dad is gone," Clara said quietly.
I didn't flinch. I had prepared myself for this conversation while I was in the shower. I wasn't going to lie to her, but I wasn't going to tell her the brutal details of the Everglades either.
"He is," I confirmed, keeping my voice perfectly even. "Dante’s men found him in Miami. He tried to run with the money. He didn't make it."
Clara swallowed hard, looking down at her hands. She didn't cry. The tears she had shed yesterday in the foyer seemed to be the last she had for Antonio Rossi.
"I’m not sad," she whispered, as if confessing a terrible crime. "Is that wrong?"
"No," I told her firmly, reaching out to squeeze her knee. "It’s not wrong. He made his choice. We made ours."
"What happens to us now?" Clara asked, looking back up at me. "Do I go back to school?"
"Not yet." I shook my head. "The situation with the Russians isn't completely resolved. You stay here. You’re safe here."
Before Clara could respond, the door to the bedroom swung open.
Luca walked in. He wasn't wearing a suit today. He wore dark jeans and a black henley, a leather shoulder holster strapped across his chest. He was carrying a small, white paper bag that smelled distinctly of sugar.
He stopped when he saw me sitting on the bed.
"Morning, boss lady," Luca said, offering a casual, two-finger salute. He turned his attention to Clara, his dark eyes lingering on the bruise covering her cheek. His jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before his wicked, easy grin slid back into place. "I brought bribes."
Clara blinked, pulling her knees slightly closer to her chest. "Bribes?"
"Cannolis," Luca clarified, holding up the paper bag. "From the bakery in Queens. The one above the accountant’s apartment. I figured since we ruined the guy’s life, the least we could do was support the local economy on the ground floor."
I let out a short, entirely inappropriate laugh. "You stopped for pastries in the middle of a mafia war?"
"Morale is important, Sienna," Luca deadpanned, walking over and setting the bag on the tray next to Clara. He looked down at my sister. "Eat the one with the chocolate chips. It’s the best. And if you need anything else, you tell Elena. If Elena says no, you tell me."
Clara stared at him, completely thrown by the lethal Underboss offering her baked goods. "Thank you."
Luca winked at her, then turned back to me. "Dante wants you in the study. Now."
The easy humor vanished from the room.
"Is something wrong?" I asked, standing up.
"The Petrovs reached out," Luca said, his voice dropping to a serious, tactical register. "They want a parley. Dante is setting the terms, but he wants you in the room."
My heart gave a hard, sudden thump against my ribs.
Dante didn't need me in the room to negotiate a ceasefire. He was the Don. He handled the politics. Bringing me into the study during a meeting with the Petrov bratva wasn't about logistics.
It was a statement.
"I’ll be right back," I told Clara, squeezing her knee one last time.
I followed Luca out of the room and down the grand staircase. The heavy mahogany doors to the study were open. Dante was standing behind his massive desk, his hands resting flat on the polished wood. Enzo and Sal were standing on the opposite side of the room, their expressions grim.
Dante looked up as I walked in.
His amber eyes tracked my approach, a dark, unmistakable flash of pride settling in his gaze as I walked straight to his side without hesitating.
"The Petrovs requested a meeting at neutral ground," Dante announced, not looking at the Capos. He kept his eyes on me. "They are offering the ten million dollars Rossi stole in exchange for a cessation of hostilities."
"Are you going to accept?" I asked, my voice steady.
"I am going to accept the money," Dante replied smoothly. "But I am not going to neutral ground. If they want peace, they come here. To my house."
Enzo shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. "Dante, with respect, bringing the Russians into the estate is a massive security risk. They could be using the parley as a distraction for a hit."
Dante finally looked at Enzo. The temperature in the room plummeted.
"Let them try," Dante said, his voice a low, lethal promise.
He reached out, his large hand wrapping around my waist, pulling me firmly against his side in front of his men.
"They will walk through my front doors, they will hand over the money, and they will look my wife in the eye and apologize for touching her family. "
Enzo’s mouth snapped shut. Sal nodded slowly, recognizing the absolute, terrifying finality in Dante’s tone.
"When are they coming?" Luca asked from the doorway.
"Tonight," Dante said, his thumb pressing possessively into my hip. "Prepare the house."