CHAPTER 7
SIENNA
The brass fire iron was heavy, but I hadn't let go of it for eight hours.
I sat in the leather armchair, my knees pulled to my chest, watching the first gray light of dawn creep through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains.
My eyes burned from lack of sleep. Every time the old house settled, every time the wind rattled the bulletproof glass, my grip on the metal tightened until my knuckles ached.
I’ll be home in eight hours.
I glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. It was six in the morning.
A low, deep rumble vibrated through the floorboards. It wasn't the wind. It was the synchronized growl of heavy engines pulling into the circular driveway below my window.
I dropped my feet to the floor, my heart kicking into a frantic, uneven rhythm. I stood up, my legs stiff from sitting in the same defensive position all night, and walked to the window. Peering through the narrow slit in the curtains, I saw three black SUVs idling near the front steps.
The perimeter guards moved quickly, fanning out around the vehicles, their rifles held at the ready.
The back door of the lead SUV opened.
Dante stepped out into the pale morning light. He wasn't wearing the pristine suit from our wedding ceremony. He wore a dark overcoat, his hair damp from the rain, his posture rigid. He turned back toward the open door, reaching a hand inside.
A second later, a small figure emerged, wrapped in a thick wool blanket.
Clara.
The breath I had been holding for the last twenty-four hours left my lungs in a rush. I dropped the brass iron. It hit the thick Persian rug with a dull thud.
I didn't bother moving the heavy armchair out of the way. I climbed right over the seat, shoved the oak door open, and ran down the hallway.
The house was completely awake. Men in dark suits moved with quiet, lethal purpose, securing the corridors. I ignored them. I flew down the grand staircase, my bare feet slapping against the cold marble, just as the heavy front doors swung open.
Dante walked in first.
The smell hit me before anything else. It was the sharp, metallic scent of fresh blood mixed with cold rain and jet fuel.
Then I saw her.
Clara stepped into the foyer behind him, her small hands clutching the edges of the oversized blanket.
Her dark hair was a tangled mess, and a vicious, purple bruise covered the left side of her face, swelling her eye shut.
She looked terrified, shrinking away from the armed guards standing by the door.
"Clara," I choked out, the word tearing at my throat.
She snapped her head up. Her good eye widened.
"Sienna!"
I crossed the remaining distance between us in three strides, throwing my arms around her. She collided with me, burying her face in the shoulder of my cashmere sweater. She was shaking violently, her fingers digging into my back like she was afraid I would disappear if she let go.
I held her tight, pressing my face into her hair, closing my eyes against the burning sting of tears. She was here. She was alive.
"I’ve got you," I whispered fiercely, rocking her slightly. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."
"They came to the campus," Clara cried, the words muffled against my sweater. "They just walked in and took me. I didn't know what was happening. They said Dad owed them."
"I know. It’s over now." I pulled back just enough to look at her face, gently brushing a strand of hair away from the dark bruise on her cheek. Fury, hot and absolute, ignited in my chest. "Did they do this to you?"
Clara nodded, a fresh tear tracking through the dirt on her face. "One of them hit me when I tried to run."
I swallowed the bitter taste of rage. I wanted to ask where the man was. I wanted to find him myself.
"The man who hit her is dead," Dante said.
His voice was a low, rough scrape against the quiet of the foyer.
I looked up.
Dante was standing a few feet away, watching us.
The adrenaline of the reunion faded just enough for me to really see him.
His dark overcoat was ruined, stained with broad, unmistakable patches of dried blood.
It was on his cuffs, on the collar of his shirt, and a faint smear marked the line of his jaw.
He looked exactly like the monster the media claimed he was. The Ghost. The executioner.
But as his whiskey-colored eyes met mine, I didn't feel the paralyzing fear I had felt yesterday. I felt a strange, heavy anchor drop in the center of my chest. He had crossed an ocean, murdered the men who touched my sister, and brought her back to me, exactly as he promised.
"Elena," Dante called out, not breaking eye contact with me.
The housekeeper materialized from the hallway, her expression as severe and unreadable as ever.
"Take Clara to the west wing," Dante instructed. "Put her in the room next to Luca’s. Draw a bath. Get her whatever she needs to eat, and have the house doctor look at that cheek."
Clara tensed, her grip on my sweater tightening. She looked at Dante with raw terror.
"It’s okay," I told her, keeping my voice steady. I squeezed her hands. "Elena is going to help you. I’ll be right upstairs in a few minutes, I promise."
Clara hesitated, but she finally let go of my sweater. Elena stepped forward, offering a rare, surprisingly gentle nod, and guided my sister toward the stairs.
I watched them go, waiting until they disappeared around the landing before I turned back to my husband.
The foyer emptied out. Luca gave Dante a brief nod before following the guards outside to manage the perimeter, leaving just the two of us standing in the vast, marble space.
The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of the last twenty-four hours.
"You have blood on your face," I said quietly.
Dante didn't move. He just watched me, his eyes dark and entirely unreadable. "It isn't mine."
"I figured." I took a step closer to him. My bare feet were freezing against the marble, but the air radiating off his body was practically burning. "Thank you. For bringing her back."
"She is family," Dante replied, his tone flat. "Nobody touches what belongs to this house."
It was a possessive, archaic statement, but right now, it was exactly what I needed to hear.
I took another step, closing the distance until I was standing right in front of him. He was so much taller than me, forcing me to tilt my head back to look at his face. The exhaustion in his eyes was profound. He had been awake for two days, fighting a war he hadn't asked for.
Without thinking, I reached up.
Dante went perfectly still as my fingers brushed against his jaw. I used the soft sleeve of my cashmere sweater to wipe the smear of dried blood from his skin. His jaw was clenched so tight I could feel the muscle ticking beneath my touch.
He didn't pull away. He looked down at me, his breathing slowing, his amber eyes tracking every micro-expression on my face.
"You should be terrified of me," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dark, intimate register.
"I am," I admitted, my hand dropping back to my side. "But I’m more terrified of the people you killed."
A humorless, dark smile touched the corner of his mouth. "You shouldn't be. They are no longer a problem."
"But the rest of the bratva is." I crossed my arms, the cold reality of our situation settling in. "Luca said my father went into hiding. He said this was about a debt."
Dante’s expression hardened. The brief moment of quiet intimacy vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating Don of the syndicate.
"Your father didn't just owe them money, Sienna," Dante said, his words deliberate and precise. "He stole from them. A shipment of weapons and ten million dollars in cash."
I stared at him, my brain struggling to process the numbers. "Ten million? My father doesn't have the infrastructure to move that kind of money. His restaurants are failing."
"He doesn't have the infrastructure to keep it, which is why he ran," Dante corrected.
He took off his ruined overcoat, tossing it carelessly over the back of a nearby chair.
Beneath it, his shoulder holster was visible against his white shirt, the dark metal of his weapon resting against his ribs.
"He knew the Petrovs would come for his head. So he sold you to me."
"To pay them off?" I asked, though a cold dread was already pooling in my stomach.
"No." Dante stepped closer, his presence demanding my absolute attention. "To start a war. He knew I wouldn't hand you over to the Russians once you wore my ring. He knew I would fight them to protect my territory. He used our marriage as a shield so he could escape with the money while we bleed."
The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
My father hadn't just sold me to save himself. He had actively painted a target on my back. He had thrown Clara to the wolves, knowing Dante would have to clean up the mess. We weren't a family to Antonio Rossi. We were collateral damage.
A wave of nausea hit me. I took a step back, pressing my hand against my stomach.
Dante reached out, his large hand gripping my elbow, steadying me before I could completely lose my balance. His grip was firm, grounding.
"He left us to die," I whispered, the words tasting like poison.
"He left you to me," Dante corrected, his voice a low, lethal promise. "It was the worst mistake he could have possibly made."
I looked up at him. The anger in his eyes wasn't directed at me. It was directed at the man who had created this nightmare.
"What happens now?" I asked, my voice remarkably steady considering my entire world had just collapsed.
"Now, the estate goes into full lockdown," Dante said, his thumb brushing lightly against the inside of my elbow. "Nobody leaves. The Petrovs will retaliate for the men I killed in Geneva. They will test our perimeter. They will try to find a weakness."
"Am I the weakness?"
Dante’s gaze dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes.
"You are the bait," he murmured, stepping into my space until the heat of his body chased away the chill of the marble floor. "And I am the trap."
He let go of my elbow, his hand sliding down my arm until his fingers tangled with mine. He lifted my left hand, his eyes fixing on the heavy platinum band resting on my ring finger.
"Your father thought he was clever," Dante said quietly, his thumb tracing the cool metal of the ring. "He thought he could hand you to the devil and walk away clean. But he forgot one very important detail about the devil, Sienna."
"What’s that?" I asked, my pulse hammering in my throat.
Dante looked up, his whiskey eyes burning with a possessiveness that left absolutely no room for negotiation.
"I keep what is mine. And I destroy anyone who tries to take it."
He dropped my hand, the sudden absence of his touch leaving a sharp, electric void in the air between us.
"Go upstairs," he ordered, his tone shifting back to business. "Check on your sister. Get some sleep. I have a war council with the Capos in an hour."
He turned and walked toward his study, his broad shoulders carrying the weight of the entire syndicate.
I stood in the foyer, looking at my left hand.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was a pawn in a game I didn't understand. Now, I was the center of a mafia war. My father had betrayed me, and my only line of defense was a man who solved his problems with a gun.
I didn't go upstairs immediately.
I walked over to the chair, picked up Dante’s ruined, blood-stained overcoat, and folded it carefully over my arm.
If we were going to war, I needed to stop acting like a hostage.
I needed to start acting like a wife.