CHAPTER 3
SIENNA
Sleeping in a beaded designer dress is a lot like sleeping inside a medieval torture device. Every time I shifted, a tiny crystal dug into my ribs, reminding me of exactly where I was and who I belonged to.
I sat up, pushing the heavy duvet off my legs. The fire I had started last night was completely dead, leaving behind a pile of gray ash and the faint, lingering smell of charred velvet.
I dragged a hand through my tangled hair. My mouth tasted like stale adrenaline.
Today was my wedding day.
Most girls dream of a church full of flowers, a string quartet, and a groom who looks at them like they hung the moon. I was getting a living room fortress, a priest who was probably being blackmailed, and a groom who looked at me like I was a highly irritating spreadsheet he needed to balance.
The heavy deadbolt on the other side of the oak door slid open with a loud, final clack.
I scrambled to the edge of the bed, planting my bare feet on the rug, my spine snapping straight. I expected Dante. I expected the human refrigerator from last night.
Instead, a woman walked in.
She was in her late fifties, wearing a pristine black dress with a white collar. Her gray hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it looked like a medical condition. She carried a massive, opaque white garment bag over one arm and a silver tray with a single cup of espresso in her free hand.
She didn't look at the ashes in the fireplace. She didn't look at my ruined dress. She just walked to the small table by the window, set the tray down, and hung the garment bag on the closet door.
"Good morning," I said, my voice raspy from sleep.
The woman turned. Her eyes were dark, calculating, and entirely unimpressed. "I am Elena. I manage the household. You have one hour to shower and dress. The Don expects you downstairs at noon."
"Elena," I repeated, standing up. My knees felt a little weak, but I locked them. "It’s nice to meet you. Quick question. Does the Don expect me to do my own hair, or is there a hostage-negotiator-slash-stylist coming?"
Elena stared at me. Her expression did not change by a single fraction of a millimeter. "There are toiletries in the bathroom. The dress is tailored to the measurements your father provided. Drink your espresso. It will help with the swelling in your face."
I opened my mouth, completely derailed.
Before I could formulate a response to the absolute savagery of that insult, Elena turned on her heel and walked out, leaving the door standing wide open.
I stared at the empty doorway. Two guards in dark suits were stationed in the hall, their hands folded neatly over their waists. The illusion of an open door. I was free to leave the room, as long as I walked exactly where I was told to go.
I walked over to the silver tray. The espresso was pitch black and smelled like heaven. I downed it in one shot, the bitter liquid burning a necessary path down my throat.
One hour.
I moved to the bathroom. It was larger than my first apartment, entirely covered in gray marble. I stripped off the ruined dress, leaving it in a heap on the floor, and stepped into the shower. The water pressure was aggressive, much like everything else in this house.
I scrubbed my skin until it was pink, trying to wash away the lingering smell of my father’s cigar smoke and the memory of him handing me over to Dante’s men.
He offered a discount because of your lack of discipline.
Dante’s words from last night echoed in the steam.
I pressed my forehead against the wet tile.
My chest tightened, a dangerous, heavy pressure building behind my ribs.
I was completely alone. No friends to call.
No mother to intervene. Just me, a fortress full of killers, and a man who thought he could buy my obedience.
I turned the water off. I refused to cry on my wedding day. It was bad luck.
Thirty minutes later, I unzipped the white garment bag.
I expected something gaudy. Something covered in lace and pearls that screamed traditional mafia bride.
Instead, I pulled out a sheath of heavy, ivory silk. It was completely unadorned. Long sleeves, a high neckline, and a back that dipped dangerously low. It was severe. It was elegant. It was exactly the kind of dress a man like Dante Morretti would choose for a transaction.
I slipped it on. The silk felt like cold water against my skin. It fit perfectly, clinging to my hips and pooling around my bare feet.
I walked to the full-length mirror.
Elena was right about the swelling. My eyes looked slightly puffy from lack of sleep, but the espresso had done its job.
I twisted my dark hair up into a messy, complicated knot at the nape of my neck, securing it with the pins I found in the vanity drawer.
I applied a thin layer of mascara and the darkest red lipstick I could find in the provided makeup bag.
If I was going to be a sacrifice, I was going to look like I planned the ritual.
I stepped out of the bedroom exactly at noon.
The guards in the hallway didn't say a word. They simply fell into step behind me as I walked toward the grand staircase.
The house was quiet, but the air felt different today. Heavier. Charged.
As I reached the top of the stairs, I looked down into the foyer. The space had been transformed. The massive rug was gone, replaced by rows of dark wooden chairs. About twenty men in expensive suits stood around the perimeter. They weren't guests. They were soldiers.
At the far end of the room, standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, was a priest. He looked like he was actively praying for a natural disaster to strike the building so he could leave.
And standing a few feet away from him, talking to a tall man with a silver switchblade in his hand, was Dante.
He wore a black suit today. No tie. The top two buttons of his crisp white shirt were undone, revealing a sliver of tanned skin. He looked less like a groom and more like a king preparing to accept a surrender.
I took the first step down the stairs.
The soft rustle of the silk drew his attention.
Dante stopped talking. The man beside him turned. Within two seconds, every single soldier in the room shifted their gaze to the staircase.
The silence was absolute.
I kept my chin high, forcing my bare feet to take the stairs one at a time with agonizing slowness. I didn't look at the soldiers. I didn't look at the terrified priest. I kept my eyes locked entirely on Dante.
His amber eyes tracked my descent. His expression was completely unreadable, a mask of cold, calculating control. But as I reached the bottom step, his gaze dropped to my mouth, lingering on the red lipstick, before trailing down the severe line of the silk dress.
A muscle feathered in his jaw.
I walked across the marble floor, stopping exactly two feet in front of him.
"You forgot my bouquet," I said, keeping my voice low enough that only he and the man beside him could hear. "What am I supposed to do with my hands? Awkwardly fidget? It ruins my aesthetic."
The man beside Dante let out a sharp, genuine laugh. He had dark hair, a wicked smile, and eyes that looked far too amused for a mafia wedding.
"I like her," the man said, pointing the handle of his switchblade at me. "I’m Luca. If you ever get tired of him, let me know. I have better snacks at my place."
Dante didn't look at Luca. He kept his eyes on me.
"Luca is my Underboss," Dante murmured, his voice a dark, rough scrape against the silence of the room. "He also talks too much. Ignore him."
"I don't know," I mused, tilting my head. "Better snacks is a strong negotiating tactic. All I got here was a burned pillow."
Dante’s eyes narrowed. The air between us cracked with sudden, sharp tension. He knew I was referencing the camera. He knew I knew he had watched me.
He took a step closer, invading my space entirely. The scent of cedar and clean soap washed over me, masking the underlying current of danger that always surrounded him.
"The pillows were an antique," he said softly, his tone dangerously even.
"They were a tragedy," I corrected, refusing to break eye contact. "I did you a favor."
Dante stared at me for a long, heavy second. His gaze dropped to my lips again, and this time, I saw a flicker of something dark and entirely unprofessional cross his features. He lifted his right hand.
I forced myself to stay perfectly still as his knuckles brushed against my cheek. His thumb traced the line of my jaw, a slow, deliberate movement that sent a shockwave of heat straight down my spine.
"We are going to have a very long, very complicated marriage, Sienna," he whispered.
"I look forward to the paperwork," I whispered back.
Dante dropped his hand. He turned to the priest, the brief moment of intimacy vanishing so quickly I almost thought I imagined it.
"Begin," Dante ordered.
The priest cleared his throat, his hands trembling slightly as he opened his leather-bound book.
The ceremony was a blur of Latin and English.
There was no mention of love, honor, or cherishing.
It was a contract read aloud. I stood next to Dante, acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, the unnerving stillness of his posture, and the weight of the twenty armed men watching our every move.
"Do you, Dante Morretti, take this woman..."
I tuned the words out. I focused on the heavy gold signet ring on Dante's pinky finger. I focused on the way the light caught the edge of Luca’s switchblade as he casually flipped it closed. I focused on anything other than the reality of the cage closing around me.
"And do you, Sienna Rossi..."
The priest paused, waiting.
Dante shifted his weight, turning his head to look at me. The entire room seemed to hold its collective breath. They were waiting to see if I would fight. If I would scream. If I would make a scene.
I looked up into Dante’s whiskey-colored eyes.
He wasn't forcing me to say it. He was waiting for me to surrender.
I lifted my chin, offering him a slow, sharp smile.
"I do," I said clearly, letting the words ring across the marble foyer.
Dante’s chest expanded with a slow breath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plain, thick band of platinum. He took my left hand. His fingers were warm and slightly rough, wrapping around mine with a grip that offered zero possibility of escape.
He slid the ring onto my finger. It was heavy. It felt like an anchor.
"By the power vested in me," the priest rushed out, practically sweating, "I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
My stomach performed a violent drop.
I hadn't thought about the kiss. In all my chaotic planning and defensive sarcasm, I had completely skipped over the physical reality of sealing the deal.
Dante turned fully toward me.
I braced myself, expecting a cold, brief press of lips. A performance for his men.
Dante’s hands came up, framing my face. His thumbs rested just beneath my cheekbones, tilting my head back. He didn't rush. He looked at my mouth, his eyes darkening, the amber turning to liquid heat.
Then, he leaned down and kissed me.
It wasn't a performance.
His mouth was firm, demanding, and dangerously controlled. He gave me one last second to pull away. I did not. Then he took the kiss, parting my lips with a slow, deliberate pressure that made my knees weak. The taste of him—dark coffee and something distinctly, dangerously male—flooded my senses.
I made a soft, involuntary sound in the back of my throat.
Dante’s grip on my face tightened. He deepened the kiss, erasing the room, the soldiers, and the terrified priest. For a terrifying, breathless second, I kissed him back.
My hands moved on their own, resting against the solid wall of his chest, feeling the steady, heavy beat of his heart through the crisp cotton of his shirt.
He broke the kiss slowly, pulling back just enough to look at me.
My lips were stinging. My lungs were completely empty. I stared at him, my armor completely shattered by the absolute possession in his eyes.
Dante lowered his head, his mouth brushing against my ear.
"You talk a good game, mia sposa," he whispered, his voice a dark, velvet threat that sent a shiver straight to my core. "But we both know you just lost."
He stepped back, turning to face his men.
"The Brooklyn docks are secured," Dante announced, his voice ringing with command.
The soldiers erupted into a chorus of deep, approving murmurs. Luca clapped Dante on the shoulder, grinning like a shark.
I stood in the center of the room, the heavy platinum ring burning against my skin, my lips still tingling from the taste of the devil.
I hadn't just lost a negotiation.
I had vastly underestimated the monster I was now tied to.