Chapter 10
S
ienna
"Stay behind me." Luca's voice was deadly calm as he moved toward the door, gun raised. "If shooting starts, you get in the bathroom and lock the door. Understand?"
My heart hammered against my ribs. Through the security monitors, I could see the figure in black moving closer to our building entrance. Professional. Calculated. Exactly the kind of threat Luca had warned me about.
"I'm not hiding in a bathroom while you—"
"Sienna." He turned, his eyes fierce. "You're carrying our child. If something happens to me, you run. Promise me."
The raw fear in his voice made my throat tighten. "Luca—"
A sharp buzz from his phone. Marco's voice came through: "Boss, we've got him. Northeast corner. It's... you need to see this."
Luca's expression shifted from battle-ready to confused. "See what?"
"He's one of ours. New recruit—Tommaso's nephew. The kid thought he was doing a perimeter check, didn't realize the schedule had changed. He's scared shitless, boss. Swears he was just trying to prove himself."
The tension in Luca's shoulders didn't ease. "Bring him to me. Now."
Twenty minutes later, a terrified young man—couldn't have been more than nineteen—stood in our apartment flanked by Angelo and Marco. His hands were zip-tied, his face pale.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Romano," he stammered. "I didn't know—Uncle Tommaso said I should show initiative, learn the security routes. I didn't mean to—"
"You disabled a camera," Luca said, voice like ice. "You moved through blind spots like you'd been trained. Explain."
"My cousin—he works for Angelo. He showed me the system once, said it was important to understand how we protect the family." The kid was shaking. "I swear, I was just trying to help. I thought if I could do a full perimeter check without being spotted, it would show I was serious about the job."
Luca studied him for a long moment. I held my breath, watching the calculation in his eyes. Finally, he turned to Angelo.
"Verify his story. Every detail. If he's telling the truth, he's an idiot, not a threat." His voice hardened. "But if you find one inconsistency—one lie—I want him dealt with."
"Yes, boss."
After they removed the terrified recruit, Luca stood at the monitors, still rigid with tension.
"False alarm," I said quietly.
"Maybe." His jaw worked. "Or maybe someone got lucky with their cover story."
He didn't sleep that night. Or the next. I'd wake at 3 a.m. to find him reviewing footage, checking camera angles, questioning whether we'd missed something.
The breach had shaken him more than he'd admit.
Two weeks underground had taught me the rhythm of our strange new life—careful routine, growing intimacy, and the constant awareness that we were living in a fortress that felt increasingly like a home.
The security breach from that first night had passed without incident—though I'd seen the tension in Luca’s shoulders for days after. Now, our life had settled into an uneasy normalcy.
The artificial sunlight from the apartment's screens mimicked morning as I padded to the kitchen, finding small gifts on the counter—cannoli from Bellini's and a mafia romance novel titled Mafia Don's Secret Captive by Vira Black I'd mentioned wanting to read.
These little offerings had been appearing for days, always when I wasn't looking, as if Luca couldn't bear to present them directly.
I traced my fingers over the book's cover, feeling the embossed lettering.
He'd remembered. A throwaway comment I'd made three days ago while we ate dinner in uncomfortable silence, and he'd remembered.
The cannoli were still warm, which meant he'd sent someone out this morning specifically for them.
How did he find time for such thoughtfulness when his world was burning above us? I'd heard enough of his phone calls through closed doors to know things were bad. Properties damaged. Contracts lost. Allies wavering. All while he stayed underground, protecting me.
The contradiction twisted something inside me. The man who'd forced me into marriage was leaving me small tokens of care while sacrificing everything he'd built.
"Thank you," I said when Luca appeared, exhaustion etched on his face despite the early hour. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and I knew he'd been up most of the night again. He shifted uncomfortably, as if gratitude was a foreign language.
"Bellini's maintains quality standards," he said gruffly, pouring himself coffee. His third cup already, judging by the half-empty pot.
Despite the tension, despite the circumstances, these small gestures meant something. They suggested the cold, calculating man was capable of thoughtfulness, of noticing what I needed before I asked.
The kettle whistled as he moved past me, his shoulder brushing mine in the narrow kitchen space. Even that brief contact sent electricity through me—a reminder of the current that had always existed between us, humming beneath every interaction.
I'd been watching the guard rotations for days, timing their movements between bouts of exhaustion that hit harder at eight weeks than they had at six.
My body was changing in ways I couldn't control—the morning sickness had intensified, and I'd learned to keep crackers by the bed.
But my mind was still sharp. I could still observe. Still plan.
Angelo always set his keycard down when reviewing the monitors—muscle memory from years of routine. Three seconds. Long enough, even when dizziness occasionally made my reactions slower than I'd like
The burner phone I'd hidden weeks ago remained tucked away, unused but available. A safety net I wasn't sure I'd ever need. Or want to use.
I thought about calling Isabella, just to hear her voice. But Luca's security monitored everything. One call could lead Giuseppe right to her boarding school. Could put a target on my baby sister's back.
No. Isabella stayed safe as long as she stayed separate from this world. As long as Giuseppe thought I had no weaknesses he could exploit.
Even if it meant she thought I'd abandoned her.
"Come with me," Luca said suddenly, breaking through my thoughts.
I hesitated, studying his face. Behind the carefully controlled expression, I could see the weight he carried—decisions that kept him awake, losses that ate at him. The slight tightness around his eyes that spoke of headaches he'd never admit to having.
But when he extended his hand, something in his eyes stopped my protest. Vulnerability. Need. He needed this. This moment of normalcy, of connection. And despite everything, so did I.
He led me to a hidden elevator I hadn't noticed before, pressing his palm to a biometric scanner. The doors opened, revealing a sleek lift that carried us up—past the basement levels, past the main club floor, to a private level above.
"My personal space," he explained as the doors opened. "Separate from the business operations."
The club's private lounge was stunning—high ceilings with exposed beams, plush velvet seating in deep sapphire blue, a polished bar, and a small dance floor bathed in soft amber lighting.
"It's closed tonight," he explained. "No one will disturb us."
Gentle music began to play—a jazz piece that seemed to emerge from hidden speakers, the melody slow and intimate.
"Mia nonna always said you could tell a man's character by how he danced," Luca said unexpectedly, extending his hand.
"She made me learn every traditional dance from Sicilia.
The Tarantella, jumping around like a fool.
" I must have looked surprised because he added, "My cousins have videos.
I was twelve and mortified. Then she taught me respectable dances—waltz, tango, foxtrot—for public appearances. "
I should have refused. Instead, I placed my hand in his.
We moved together with surprising ease, as if our bodies remembered something our minds had tried to forget.
His hand on my waist was firm but gentle, guiding me across the floor with practiced confidence.
The space between us gradually diminished until my head rested against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
I could feel every plane of his body against mine—the solid muscle of his chest, the strength in his arms as he guided me. Heat radiated from where his hand rested on my waist, his thumb occasionally stroking small circles that sent shivers up my spine.
When I looked up at him, his eyes were already on me, dark with an intensity that had nothing to do with dancing. His hand tightened on my waist, pulling me closer, until there was no space left between us. I could feel his heartbeat quicken, matching the rhythm of my own.
"Sienna," he murmured, my name a rough whisper.
The way he said it—like a prayer, like a curse—made heat pool low in my belly.
"Your grandmother taught you to dance?" I asked, surprise coloring my voice.
"Mamma insisted," he said, the Italian slipping out unconsciously. "Said a Romano man who couldn't lead a woman properly wasn't worthy of the name. She died when I was fifteen."
The vulnerability in his voice caught me off guard. This was Luca stripped of his armor, sharing pieces of himself I'd never expected to see.
A wave of emotion crashed over me. I pressed my palm against my still-flat stomach, thinking of the life growing there—barely eight weeks along, invisible to the world but becoming more real to me each day.
"What is it?" Luca asked, his voice dropping to that protective register I'd learned to recognize.
"It's real, isn't it?" I whispered, my hand still pressed to my stomach. "This baby we made."
His eyes met mine, something raw in their depths. Hesitantly, as if afraid I might pull away, he placed his hand beside mine on my stomach. His palm was warm, large enough to span my abdomen completely.
"Yes," he said. "Our child.
For a moment, neither of us moved, his hand warm over mine, both of us connected to the invisible life between us.
"I never expected to have this," he admitted quietly.
"A child?"