CHAPTER 28
SIENNA
The black armored truck rumbled over the George Washington Bridge, the heavy tires eating up the asphalt as we crossed back into Manhattan.
The sun was fully up now, casting a pale, cold light over the city. I kept my arm wrapped tightly around Clara’s shoulders. She had fallen asleep somewhere around Yonkers, her head resting heavily against my collarbone. The exhaustion had finally overpowered her terror.
I didn't sleep. I kept my eyes fixed on the back of Dante’s head.
He was sitting in the passenger seat, his broad shoulders filling the space, his dark hair messy from the tactical vest he had finally unstrapped and tossed onto the floorboard.
Silas was driving, his eyes scanning the mirrors every ten seconds, but the frantic urgency of the escape had faded into a steady, controlled vigilance.
"The police locked down the Vitiello compound," Silas reported quietly, breaking the long silence in the cabin. "It’s all over the scanners. They are calling it a targeted syndicate hit. No suspects in custody."
"They won't find any," Dante replied, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Leo’s men won't talk to the police, and the cameras in the sub-basement were cut before we breached."
"What about the FBI?" I asked, keeping my voice soft so I wouldn't wake Clara.
Dante turned his head, looking at me over his shoulder. The harsh morning light highlighted the dark circles under his eyes and the sharp, exhausted lines of his face.
"The FBI has a dead prime suspect," Dante said smoothly.
"Leo Vitiello orchestrated the raid on our warehouse.
He used his federal contacts to push the warrant.
Now that he is dead, his contacts will scramble to distance themselves from his name.
They won't push a fraudulent case against the wife of the Morretti syndicate without Leo pulling the strings. "
"So the warrant just disappears?" I asked, finding it hard to believe it could be that simple.
"Not instantly," Dante corrected. "My lawyers are already filing motions to contest the signature on the ledgers. Without Leo’s pressure, the federal prosecutor will realize the case is built on quicksand. It will take a few days, but the warrant will be quietly dropped."
I let out a slow, shaky breath, leaning my head back against the leather seat.
It was over.
My father was dead. Leo Vitiello was dead. The Russians were paid off. The terrifying, chaotic hurricane that had ripped through my life over the last week was finally dissipating, leaving me sitting in the back of a stolen truck with the man who had burned the city down to keep me safe.
The heavy iron gates of the Morretti estate came into view.
They were closed, flanked by two armored SUVs and a dozen heavily armed guards. Silas flashed his headlights twice. The gates swung open immediately, admitting us into the sprawling, manicured grounds.
The house looked exactly as we had left it, standing tall and imposing against the morning sky.
Silas parked the truck near the front steps.
I gently shook Clara’s shoulder. "Hey. Wake up. We’re home."
Clara blinked, sitting up slowly and rubbing her good eye. She looked out the window at the massive stone house, then at me. "Is it really over?"
"It’s over," I promised her.
Dante opened the back door. He didn't wait for me to struggle with the heavy Kevlar vest I was still wearing.
He reached in, his large hands gripping the velcro straps, and stripped the tactical gear off my body with practiced efficiency.
He tossed the heavy vest onto the floorboard next to his own.
He offered me his hand.
I took it, stepping out of the truck. My legs felt like lead, the adrenaline gone, leaving only a bone-deep ache in my muscles.
Luca was waiting at the top of the steps. He looked exhausted, his dark hair a mess, a fresh cut healing above his left eyebrow from whatever skirmish he had fought holding the perimeter last night.
He looked at Dante, then at Clara standing behind me.
A slow, genuine smile spread across Luca’s face. "Welcome back, boss. The house is secure."
"Good work, Luca," Dante said, his tone carrying a heavy weight of respect. He didn't need to say anything else. Luca knew exactly what the successful defense of the house meant.
Elena was waiting in the foyer. She didn't look at the dirt on my jeans or the blood on Dante’s shirt. She walked straight to Clara, wrapping a surprisingly gentle arm around my sister’s shoulders.
"I have a hot bath drawn in the guest wing," Elena told her softly. "And I made fresh pasta. You are going to eat, and then you are going to sleep for twenty-four hours."
Clara looked at me. I nodded.
She let Elena guide her toward the stairs, the severe housekeeper acting more like a protective mother than a mafia employee.
I watched them go, a profound sense of relief washing over me.
"You should sleep too," Dante murmured, stepping up behind me. His hand rested flat against the small of my back, the familiar, heavy heat seeping through my thin sweater.
"I will," I said, turning to face him. "But I need to clean your arm first."
Dante looked down at me. The bandage on his right bicep was dark with dried blood, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped during the drive back from the Bronx.
"I can have the house doctor look at it," Dante offered, his thumb brushing a smudge of dirt from my cheek. "You are exhausted, Sienna."
"I’m not that exhausted," I argued, grabbing his left hand and pulling him toward the stairs. "And I don't want the house doctor. I want to do it."
A faint, tired smile touched the corner of his mouth. He didn't resist. He let me lead him up the grand staircase and down the long hallway to the master suite.
The bedroom looked exactly as we had left it yesterday morning. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, the massive bed perfectly made. It felt like a lifetime had passed since we woke up in this room.
I led him into the gray marble bathroom.
"Sit," I instructed, pointing to the edge of the large soaking tub.
Dante sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. He watched me as I opened the mirrored cabinet, pulling out the first-aid kit, a bottle of antiseptic, and fresh bandages.
I stepped between his knees, just like I had in the safe house in Pennsylvania.
He didn't wear a shirt this time. The dark bruising along his ribs from the recoil of his rifle and the sheer physical toll of the last three days was stark against his tanned skin.
I carefully peeled the ruined bandage off his right arm. The wound was ugly, a jagged trench of torn flesh, but it wasn't infected.
"This is going to sting again," I warned, pouring the antiseptic onto a clean piece of gauze.
"I don't care," Dante said quietly.
He didn't flinch as I cleaned the wound. He didn't even look at his arm. He kept his amber eyes locked entirely on my face, tracking every movement, every breath I took.
"You didn't hesitate," Dante murmured, his voice a low vibration in the quiet bathroom.
I paused, pressing the clean gauze against his skin. "When?"
"In the Vitiello house," he clarified. "When the maid dropped the vase and the guards opened fire. You didn't panic. You didn't freeze. You shot the mirror exactly when I told you to."
"You told me to trust you," I reminded him, picking up a roll of medical tape. "So I did."
"It’s more than trust, Sienna." Dante reached up with his left hand, his fingers wrapping gently around my wrist, stopping my movements. "You stepped into a war zone. You faced the man who orchestrated your father’s death and the kidnapping of your sister, and you didn't break. You broke him."
I looked down at his hand holding mine. The heavy platinum ring caught the harsh bathroom light.
"I didn't have a choice," I whispered, the reality of what I had become settling heavily in my chest. "If I broke, Clara would have died. You would have died."
"You always have a choice," Dante corrected, his voice dropping to a rough, intimate rasp. "You could have stayed in Pennsylvania. You could have let me fight the war alone. But you chose to stand beside me."
He let go of my wrist, his hand sliding up my arm to cup the back of my neck. He pulled me forward, forcing me to drop the medical tape onto the edge of the tub.
I stepped closer, my thighs brushing against his knees.
"I told you," I murmured, my hands resting flat against his bare chest. "I’m not a hostage anymore."
"No," Dante agreed, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "You are my wife. You are the Queen of this syndicate. And there is not a single man in this city who will ever question your authority again."
He leaned forward, pressing his mouth to mine.
The kiss wasn't frantic or desperate like the ones we had shared in the safe house. It was slow, deep, and entirely consuming. It was a kiss that tasted like victory, survival, and raw devotion.
I melted against him, my fingers tangling in his dark hair. The exhaustion in my bones was completely eclipsed by the heavy, burning heat spreading through my veins.
Dante broke the kiss, his breathing slightly ragged. He rested his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
"Finish the bandage," he whispered, a faint trace of humor in his exhausted voice. "Before I forget that I have a bullet graze and pull you into that shower."
I let out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound echoing brightly off the marble walls.
I stepped back, picking up the medical tape. I secured the fresh gauze over his bicep, smoothing the edges down with careful precision.
"Done," I announced, stepping back to admire my work.
Dante stood up. He didn't reach for a shirt. He simply reached out, hooking his arm around my waist, and pulled me out of the bathroom and toward the massive bed.
We didn't bother pulling the heavy duvet back. We collapsed onto the mattress, the soft sheets cool against my tired skin.
Dante pulled me flush against his side, my head resting on his chest, his arm wrapped securely around my waist. The steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat drummed against my ear.
I closed my eyes.
The sirens were gone. The gunfire was a memory. The monsters who had tried to tear my family apart were dead and buried.
I was lying in the arms of the most dangerous man in New York, and for the first time since he placed the ring on my finger, I wasn't afraid of the dark.
I knew the devil was on my side.