CHAPTER 30
SIENNA
The heavy oak door of the master suite clicked shut, the sound of the deadbolt sliding into place echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Dante didn't set me down immediately. He carried me across the thick Persian rug, his arms locked securely beneath my knees and around my back. The afternoon sun filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, casting long, warm shadows across the charcoal-colored bedding.
He let my legs drop, allowing my feet to touch the floor, but he didn't break the contact. He backed me up until the edge of the mattress hit the backs of my knees.
"You canceled a meeting with the union bosses," I murmured, resting my hands flat against the lapels of his suit jacket. "The Ghost of New York is going to lose his terrifying reputation."
"My reputation is perfectly intact," Dante replied, his voice dropping to a low, rough vibration that settled deep in my stomach. "The unions will wait. The Capos will wait. The entire city will wait until I open that door."
He reached up, his large hands gripping the hem of the oversized black sweater I was wearing.
He pulled it over my head in one smooth, fluid motion, tossing it carelessly onto a nearby chair.
The cool air of the bedroom brushed against my skin, but it was instantly chased away by the burning heat in his amber eyes.
I was wearing a thin black bralette beneath the sweater. Dante’s gaze dropped to my chest, tracking the rapid, uneven rise and fall of my breathing.
He didn't rush. He never rushed.
He shrugged off his suit jacket, letting it fall to the floor, and reached for the buttons of his crisp white shirt.
I didn't wait for him to finish. I pushed his hands away, taking over the task myself.
My fingers were clumsy with a sudden, desperate urgency.
I popped the buttons free, pushing the fabric off his broad shoulders.
The white bandage on his right bicep was gone, replaced by a thick, jagged pink scar.
I paused, my fingertips tracing the raised edge of the healed flesh. It was a permanent physical reminder of the night he had burned a bratva cell to the ground to bring my sister home.
"Does it hurt?" I asked quietly.
"Not anymore," Dante said. He covered my hand with his, pressing my palm flat against his chest, right over the heavy, frantic beat of his heart. "Nothing hurts when I am looking at you."
The absolute, unvarnished devotion in his words stripped away the last of my defenses.
I didn't want to talk anymore. I wanted to feel him.
I reached for the buckle of his belt, my hands moving with deliberate intent. Dante let out a harsh, ragged breath, his control fracturing instantly. He gripped my hips, lifting me entirely off the floor and dropping me onto the center of the mattress.
He followed me down, his heavy weight pressing me into the sheets.
He kissed me, a dark, consuming collision of mouths and teeth. He tasted like black coffee and pure possession. I opened for him immediately, my tongue meeting his, my hands tangling in his dark hair to pull him closer.
He stripped the dark leggings down my legs, discarding them onto the floor. The bralette followed a second later.
I lay completely bare beneath him, exposed to the afternoon light and the intense, predatory hunger in his eyes. He looked at my body not like a man looking at a prize, but like a zealot looking at an altar.
Dante kissed his way down the long column of my throat, his lips pressing a hot, open-mouthed brand against my collarbone. He moved lower, his mouth closing over my breast, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive peak.
A sharp cry tore from my throat. I arched my back, my fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders.
"Dante," I gasped, the friction sending a blinding wave of heat straight to my core.
He didn't stop. He dragged his mouth down the flat plane of my stomach, his hands gripping my thighs and pushing them wider. He settled himself between my legs, his breath hot against my most sensitive skin.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
I forced my eyes open, my vision swimming.
He lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue was a shock of pure, electric pleasure.
I gripped the dark sheets, my knuckles turning white as he tasted me.
He was ruthless and methodical, using his mouth with the same lethal precision he applied to everything else in his life.
He knew exactly where to press, exactly how much pressure to apply, driving me up a steep, terrifying incline of sensation.
"Please," I choked out, my hips rising off the mattress, chasing the pressure.
"Give it to me, Sienna," he murmured against my skin, his hands gripping my hips to hold me in place. "Let go."
I shattered. The climax hit me like a physical blow, a massive, white-hot explosion that stole the breath from my lungs and left me trembling violently against the mattress. I cried out his name, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet room.
Dante moved up my body before the tremors even subsided.
He discarded his trousers and briefs, his eyes dark and completely dilated. He settled his weight over me, his hands framing my face. His thumbs brushed against my flushed cheeks.
"Mine," he whispered, the word carrying the weight of a blood oath.
"Always," I answered, wrapping my legs around his waist.
He pushed into me.
The stretch was deep and absolute. He filled me completely, a heavy, grounding pressure that anchored me to the bed. Dante closed his eyes, his jaw tight with the effort of holding himself still, letting my body adjust to his size.
I didn't want him to be still.
I dragged my nails lightly down his spine, urging him forward.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, and began to move. The rhythm was slow and punishingly deep at first, a deliberate friction that reignited the fire in my blood. Every thrust pushed me higher, the physical connection blurring the lines between where I ended and he began.
The pace accelerated. The civilized, calculating Don of New York vanished entirely, leaving only the man who had torn a city apart to keep me safe. He drove into me with a desperate, primal urgency, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat.
I matched his rhythm, meeting every thrust, my hands gripping his shoulders to pull him closer.
"Sienna," he rasped, his control finally breaking.
He buried his face in the curve of my neck, his hips snapping forward in three rapid, brutal thrusts. He found his release with a harsh shout, his entire body going rigid against mine. The force of his climax triggered my own second wave, a blinding rush of pleasure that left me completely undone.
He collapsed against me, his heavy weight pressing me deep into the mattress.
We lay tangled in the dark sheets, the only sound the frantic, uneven rhythm of our breathing. Dante rolled slightly to the side, taking my weight with him, and pulled the heavy duvet over our cooling bodies.
I rested my head on his chest, my fingers idly tracing the faded scars across his ribs.
The room grew darker as the afternoon slipped into early evening.
"I need to hire a new accountant," Dante murmured into the quiet space, his hand stroking my bare back.
I smiled against his skin. "I thought you were going to promote someone from the Bronx."
"I was," he replied. "But I realized I already have someone living in my house who understands offshore routing numbers better than most federal agents."
I tilted my head up, resting my chin on his chest. "Are you offering me a job, Mr. Morretti?"
"I am offering you the books," Dante corrected, his amber eyes meeting mine. "I don't trust anyone else to manage the legitimate fronts. Your father used the shadows to hide his theft. I want you to control the light."
It was the ultimate surrender of power. The financial ledgers were the lifeblood of the syndicate. By handing them to me, he was making me truly untouchable.
"I want a corner office," I told him, keeping my tone entirely serious. "And I want to fire the guy who handles the imports for the restaurant supply lines. He’s skimming."
Dante let out a low, rich laugh, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Done."
He pulled me closer, burying his face in my hair, and we drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
By the time we finally emerged from the master suite, the house was completely dark, the interior lights burning with a warm, golden glow.
I was wearing a simple black wrap dress, my hair still damp from the shower we had shared. Dante walked beside me, dressed in a dark button-down shirt and slacks, his hand resting casually on the small of my back.
We walked into the formal dining room.
It didn't look like a war council tonight. The heavy mahogany table was set for five. The scent of roasted garlic, fresh basil, and baked bread filled the room.
Clara was already sitting at the table, wearing a Columbia University sweatshirt, arguing passionately with Luca.
"I’m just saying," Luca grinned, leaning back in his chair and spinning a silver butter knife on the table, "if the guy in your art history class is taking notes for you, he doesn't want to be your study partner.
He wants to take you to dinner. And I need his full name and address for a background check. "
"You are not doing a background check on a sophomore, Luca," Clara groaned, burying her face in her hands. "He’s a vegetarian who rides a bicycle. He’s harmless."
"Nobody is harmless," Silas noted quietly from the other side of the table. He was wearing his usual dark suit, a glass of red wine resting near his hand. He looked at Dante and me as we walked in. "Boss. Mrs. Morretti."
"Silas," Dante acknowledged, pulling my chair out for me at the right side of the head of the table.
I sat down, offering Silas a warm smile. "Did you approve the new security budget?"
"I did," Silas said, a rare, faint smirk touching his mouth. "The pastry bribe was highly effective."
Dante took his seat at the head of the table. Elena walked in through the swinging kitchen doors, carrying a massive platter of handmade pasta and roasted meats. She set it in the center of the table, her sharp eyes scanning the group to ensure everyone had a drink.
"Eat," Elena commanded the room, turning her severe gaze to Luca. "And stop threatening the girl’s classmates. You will ruin her appetite."
"I’m just providing a service, Elena," Luca defended himself, reaching for the serving spoon.
I watched the chaotic, entirely bizarre family dinner unfold.
A month ago, I had sat at this exact table, gripping a silver fork to hide the fact that my hands were shaking, convinced I was going to die in a mafia crossfire. I had looked at the men in this room and seen only monsters.
Now, I looked at Luca arguing about college boys, Silas quietly drinking wine, and Elena aggressively forcing food onto everyone’s plates.
They were killers. They were criminals.
But they were also the people who had stood between my sister and a Russian hit squad. They were the people who had bled to keep this house standing.
Dante reached under the table, his large hand finding my knee. He squeezed gently, a silent, grounding touch.
I turned my head to look at him.
He was watching me, the hard, lethal edge of the Don completely absent from his features. He looked relaxed. He looked entirely at peace.
He lifted his glass of red wine, holding it up slightly.
The table went quiet. Luca stopped spinning the knife. Silas set his glass down. Clara looked up from her plate.
"To the house," Dante said, his voice carrying clearly across the dining room. He didn't look at his Capos. He kept his amber eyes locked entirely on me. "And to the Queen who kept it standing."
"To the Queen," Luca echoed, raising his glass with a massive grin.
"To Sienna," Clara added softly, lifting her water glass.
I picked up my wine, my throat tight with an emotion I couldn't entirely name. It wasn't just survival anymore. It was belonging.
I clinked my glass against Dante’s. The crystal rang with a clear, sharp sound.
"To us," I murmured.
We drank.
Later that night, long after the plates were cleared and the house had settled into its quiet, heavily guarded routine, Dante and I stepped out onto the stone balcony attached to the master suite.
The November air was freezing, biting through the thin fabric of my dress. Dante stepped up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling my back flush against his chest, shielding me from the wind.
We looked out over the sprawling, dark gardens of the estate. In the far distance, the glowing skyline of Manhattan burned against the night sky.
"It’s quiet," I noted, resting my hands over his arms.
"It will stay quiet," Dante promised, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. "The city knows who holds the throne."
I leaned back against him, the heavy weight of the platinum ring cool against my skin.
I had spent my youth terrified of the darkness my father brought into our lives. I had tried to run from it, tried to hide in the light of normal jobs and normal routines. But the light had never made me feel safe.
The light was where the lies lived.
It was only when I was dragged into the absolute, terrifying dark—into the arms of the Ghost of New York—that I finally found my footing.
I didn't escape the monster.
I married him.
And as I stood on the balcony, wrapped in the arms of the man who had burned an empire to the ground just to keep me safe, I knew I wouldn't trade the darkness for anything in the world.
Because in the dark, I was the one who ruled.