CHAPTER 9
SIENNA
The heavy wool of Dante’s overcoat smelled like expensive cologne, cold rain, and violence.
I stood in the massive gray marble bathroom of my suite, staring at the dark fabric draped over the edge of the porcelain tub. The rust-colored stains on the cuffs and collar were stark against the charcoal material.
I didn't know why I brought it upstairs. Elena had a staff of maids who handled the laundry. I could have left it over the back of the dining room chair. But leaving it there felt like leaving a piece of him exposed, and after what he had done for Clara, my instincts had overridden my logic.
I turned the faucet on, letting the water run until it was scalding hot. I grabbed a white washcloth from the stack on the vanity, soaked it, and pressed it against the dried blood on the collar.
The stain didn't budge.
"You can't wash that out with just hot water."
I jumped, dropping the washcloth into the sink.
Clara was standing in the doorway of the bathroom.
She was wearing a pair of silk pajamas that Elena must have found for her, the sleeves rolled up to expose the angry red marks from the zip ties on her wrists.
The swelling around her left eye had gone down slightly, but the bruise was turning an ugly shade of purple and yellow.
"You scared me," I said, pressing a hand to my chest. "You’re supposed to be resting."
"I can't sleep." Clara wrapped her arms around her waist, her gaze fixed on the ruined overcoat. "Elena said I could come find you. She said the house is secure."
"It is." I turned the water off, abandoning my terrible attempt at dry cleaning. I walked over to her, gently grabbing her elbow and guiding her out of the cold bathroom and into the main bedroom. "Come here. Sit down."
We sat on the edge of the massive king-sized bed. The fire was unlit today, the room bright with the midday sun filtering through the bulletproof glass.
Clara pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them. She looked so young. She had always been the softer one, the sister who liked painting and quiet libraries, while I was the one yelling at our father's capos for tracking mud into the hallway.
"Did he really do it?" Clara asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Dad. Did he really steal from the Russians and leave us?"
I looked down at my hands. The platinum band on my left ring finger felt incredibly heavy.
"Yes," I told her honestly. "He took ten million dollars. He sold me to Dante to start a war, hoping the Morretti syndicate would wipe out the Petrovs so he could keep the money."
Clara closed her eyes, a fresh tear slipping down her unbruised cheek. "I thought he loved us."
"He loves himself, Clara." I reached out, brushing the tear away with my thumb. "But it doesn't matter anymore. Dante sent his men to find him. We don't have to look over our shoulders for Antonio Rossi ever again."
"But we have to look over our shoulders for the Russians," she pointed out, her voice trembling.
"Sienna, the men who took me... they were talking about what they were going to do to you.
They said the Don of New York wouldn't care about a forced bride.
They thought they could use me to get you to open the gates. "
A cold chill washed over my skin.
They had underestimated Dante, but they hadn't underestimated me. If they had sent me a video of Clara instead of a flower, I would have walked out the front gates of this estate without a second thought.
"They were wrong," I said firmly. "Dante cares."
Clara tilted her head, studying my face with her one good eye. "You just met him yesterday. How do you know?"
"Because he went to Switzerland." I looked back toward the bathroom, where the ruined coat was still draped over the tub. "He didn't send a team. He went himself. He killed the men who hurt you, Clara. He isn't going to let anyone touch us."
"He killed four people in front of me," Clara whispered, shivering. "He didn't even blink, Sienna. He just shot them and stepped over the bodies like they were furniture."
"I know."
"Aren't you afraid of him?"
I thought about the way Dante had looked at me in the dining room an hour ago. The absolute, terrifying possessiveness in his whiskey eyes when he told me he protects what is his. The way my pulse had hammered against his mouth when he kissed my jaw.
"I’m terrified of him," I admitted quietly. "But I think I’m more afraid of what would happen to us if he wasn't here."
A sharp, sudden knock on the bedroom door made us both jump.
Clara scrambled backward on the bed, her eyes wide with panic. I stood up immediately, placing myself between her and the door.
"Who is it?" I called out, keeping my voice steady.
"It’s Elena."
I let out a breath and walked over to the heavy oak door, pulling it open.
The housekeeper was standing in the hallway, holding a silver tray with two bowls of soup and a plate of fresh bread. She didn't look at me; her eyes went straight to Clara sitting on the bed.
"The doctor left a topical cream for the bruising," Elena said, stepping into the room and setting the tray on the small table by the window. "You need to apply it twice a day. And you both need to eat."
"Thank you, Elena," I said.
She turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway. She looked at me, her dark eyes calculating.
"The Don’s men are mobilizing," she informed me, her tone entirely conversational, as if she were discussing the weather.
"They are hitting three of the Petrov distribution centers tonight.
The house will be on high alert. If you hear sirens, or if the perimeter alarms sound, you do not leave this wing. Is that clear?"
"Clear," I nodded. "Has Luca checked in?"
Elena’s expression tightened a fraction of an inch. "Luca’s team reached the property in the Catskills. The house was empty."
My stomach dropped. "My father wasn't there?"
"No. But the Russians were." Elena smoothed her black apron, her voice devoid of emotion. "There was a firefight. Luca secured the property, but Antonio Rossi is gone. He cleared out the panic room before either side arrived."
He slipped away again.
"Did Luca lose any men?" I asked, the reality of the war pressing down on me.
"Two wounded. None dead." Elena looked at the heavy platinum ring on my finger. "Your father is a ghost, Sienna. But Dante is a better hunter. He will find him."
She closed the door behind her, the heavy latch clicking into place.
I stood in the center of the room, staring at the closed door. My father was still out there. The Petrovs were still out there. The war Dante had started to protect my sister and my pride was already costing his men their blood.
"Sienna?" Clara asked softly from the bed.
I turned around. She was looking at the soup, her hands trembling in her lap.
"Eat," I told her, forcing a small smile. "Elena will scold us both if we don't finish it."
We sat at the small table and ate in silence.
The soup was incredible, rich and warm, but I barely tasted it.
My mind was racing, calculating the variables, trying to figure out where a coward with ten million dollars would hide when both the Petrov bratva and the New York syndicate were hunting him.
He didn't have loyal men. He didn't have international connections. He only had his mistresses and his greed.
Valerie’s house was empty.
I set my spoon down, the silver clinking sharply against the porcelain bowl.
"Clara," I said, my brain snagging on a memory from three years ago. "When Dad sent you to Switzerland, who booked the flights?"
Clara looked up, confused. "I don't know. His secretary, I think. Why?"
"He didn't have a secretary. He had an accountant." I stood up, pacing the length of the room. "A guy named Marcus. Thin, balding, always sweating. He handled the legitimate books for the restaurants."
"I remember him," Clara nodded slowly. "He was always yelling on the phone about offshore accounts."
"Exactly." I stopped pacing. "My father doesn't know how to move ten million dollars cleanly. He barely knows how to use an ATM. If he ran, he didn't do it alone. He needed Marcus to set up the accounts."
I walked over to the bed and grabbed the encrypted phone Elena had given me.
I didn't have Dante’s number. I didn't have Luca’s number.
But I knew someone who might.
I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. The two guards were standing at their posts, their hands resting over their weapons.
"I need to speak to Elena," I told the guard on the left.
He didn't move. "Elena is busy, Mrs. Morretti."
"Then un-busy her," I snapped, the authority in my voice surprising even me. "Tell her I have a name for the Don. Tell her I know who helped my father run."
The guard hesitated, his eyes flicking to my face. He saw the absolute certainty in my expression. He reached up, pressing a finger to his earpiece, and muttered something in Italian.
A minute later, Elena appeared at the top of the stairs.
"You have a name?" she asked, skipping the pleasantries.
"Marcus Vance," I said. "He was my father’s accountant. He has an apartment in Queens, right above a bakery on 34th Avenue. If my father is moving money, Marcus is the one hitting the buttons."
Elena stared at me for a long, heavy second. She didn't question how I knew. She didn't tell me to stay out of syndicate business.
She just nodded once.
"I will relay the information to Dante," she said.
She turned and walked back down the stairs.
I stepped back into the bedroom, pulling the door shut. Clara was watching me from the table, her eyes wide.
"You just gave them Marcus," she whispered. "Sienna, they’re going to kill him."
"Marcus helped our father sell us," I replied, my voice completely steady. I walked into the bathroom, picked up the ruined charcoal overcoat from the tub, and threw it into the trash can.
I wasn't going to try to wash the blood out anymore.
I was just going to help Dante spill the rest of it.