Julian's POV:

The air outside the surgical wing of the underground syndicate infirmary reeked of bleach.

I paced the narrow corridor, the frantic, agitated clicking of my dress shoes against the concrete floor the only sound in the hallway.

My fists were clenched so tightly my knuckles were white.

The image of Sienna lying broken at the bottom of the stairs haunted my mind.

My custom shirt was ruined, stiff and soaked with my wife's dried blood. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Alessia was curled up in a chair in the corner.

"Julian, I'm so sorry," Alessia mumbled through her hands. "It was an accident. I swear, I tried to catch her. I tried to stop her from falling. It's all my fault."

I didn't answer her. I couldn't speak. A boulder of terror felt wedged under my ribs, making it impossible to take a deep breath.

The heavy metal doors of the operating room finally swung open.

The syndicate doctor stepped out, his green scrubs covered in blood. He pulled down his mask, his face set in a grim expression.

I crossed the hall in two strides and grabbed the doctor by the collar of his scrubs.

"Tell me she's alive," I demanded.

"The Donna is stable, Boss," the doctor said quickly, raising his hands. "She survived the fall. We managed to stop the internal bleeding."

I let out a long, shuddering breath. I released his collar and leaned back against the concrete wall.

She was alive. I could fix this.

I could buy her diamonds; I could give her the whole world as penance.

"But, Boss," the doctor continued, "I'm so sorry. The baby didn't make it."

The silence in the corridor was so deafening it hurt my ears.

I froze. My brain stopped processing sound; the words seemed suspended in the dead air.

"Baby?"

It was a foreign syllable to me.

I stared blankly at the doctor, completely at a loss.

I had no idea she was pregnant.

It was impossible. Years ago, her womb was destroyed to save my life.

The doctor gave me a look. He shoved a thick medical file right into my chest.

"She was eight weeks pregnant, Don," the doctor said, his tone thick with indignation, all professional respect gone. "It was a miracle conception. Did you not know?"

The words "eight weeks" drove into my temples like steel nails, shattering my fragile system of self-deception.

Memories rushed back, slamming into me violently.

I remembered her in the ballroom, tugging at my jacket, whispering that she wasn't feeling well.

I remembered shaking her off in a moment of irritation.

I remembered her in the driveway, trying to tell me something important, and me harshly cutting her off.

I remembered standing in the ballroom, pouring champagne, publicly humiliating the mother of my child by calling her a useless vessel.

A suffocating wave of self-loathing swallowed me whole.

I turned and punched the concrete wall. The force was so great that the bones in my hand cracked upon impact.

I pounded it again and again until my knuckles were a bloody, mangled mess, as if the physical pain in my hand could somehow cancel out the agony everywhere else.

Alessia, deathly pale, pressed herself tightly into her chair, terrified by the raw display of violence.

"Julian, please," Alessia trembled, her voice laced with fear. "You can't blame yourself. Sienna started it. She lost her balance trying to hit me. She brought this on herself."

I stopped punching the wall, my bleeding hand dropping limply to my side.

I turned around slowly.

I looked at Alessia, seeing her fake tears, the hidden apathy, and the hypocrisy in her eyes.

All I saw was red. A bloodshot, murderous glare locked onto her face, stripping away all her disguises.

"Do you think I'm a fool?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly low.

I reached into my pocket with my good hand and pulled out my encrypted phone. I dialed my head of security, keeping my eyes fixed on her, daring her to move.

"Lock down the estate," I ordered into the phone, my eyes never leaving her pale face. "Bring me the security footage of the courtyard stairs. If anyone touches it, I'll kill them myself."

Sienna's POV:

For a span of time I couldn't measure, I was trapped in dark, suffocating fever dreams.

I felt like I was eighteen again, feeling the assassin's bullet rip through my abdomen.

I saw Julian kneeling in my blood, his young face masked in frantic desperation as he swore I would be his only wife.

I opened my eyes.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the VIP recovery suite blinded me for a moment.

The pungent smell of antiseptic filled my lungs.

It had all been a dream. Just a dream.

I slowly turned my head.

Julian was kneeling by my hospital bed, looking absolutely destroyed.

His custom suit was ruined, stiff and torn, stained with my dried blood.

His right hand was wrapped in white bandages, the gauze already seeping crimson.

His eyes were hollow and sunken, framed by dark bruises of exhaustion.

"Sienna," Julian whispered, his voice raspy with guilt.

He reached out, gently placing his large hand over mine.

"How do you feel?"

My face felt like it was encased in ice.

I felt absolutely nothing for the man in front of me.

I coldly slipped my hand out from under his and pulled it back to my side.

"I want a Mafia-sanctioned divorce agreement," I said flatly, without a hint of inflection.

"I want you out of my sight forever."

Julian flinched hard, as if I had physically struck him.

"No," he rushed out, shaking his head frantically.

"No, Sienna. I'll give you anything."

"I'll transfer millions into your personal accounts. I'll give you the estate in Italy, the shares in the shipping company. Whatever you want."

"But I won't let you go. Anything but that."

I let out a bitter, hollow laugh that scraped against my dry throat.

"Keep your blood money, Julian," I said, staring at the ceiling.

"You have no right to mourn. You have no right to repent. You are the murderer of our child."

Julian broke.

The ruthless Mafia godfather buried his face into the edge of my mattress and openly wept.

His broad shoulders shook with his sobs.

"It wasn't me," Julian begged desperately, lifting his tear-streaked face. His eyes were full of pleading, but met only my icy indifference.

"I saw the security footage, Sienna. I saw it. Alessia pushed you."

"I swear to God, I'm going to strip her of Omertà. I'm throwing her to the wolves. I'll kill her myself."

"Shut up," I commanded.

I turned my head and looked straight into his bloodshot eyes.

"You handed her the weapon, Julian," I stated, ruthlessly exposing his hypocrisy.

"Your blind favoritism, your public humiliation of me, your bias toward her. You gave her the power to destroy me."

"One of you held the knife, the other plunged it in. You are both guilty."

The suite door slowly opened with a soft click.

Alessia cautiously stepped into the room, her presence a violation facilitated by her family's influence.

She held a small tray carrying a bowl of broth.

Dressed in a white sundress, she looked like a fragile, innocent angel.

"Sienna," Alessia whispered, her voice carrying a perfectly rehearsed sorrow.

"I brought you some soup. I'm so, so sorry about the baby. I never meant to make you fall."

Julian exploded.

He violently lunged up from the floor, sending his chair crashing backward into the wall.

His hand darted under his ruined jacket, drawing his custom mob pistol with lightning speed.

He crossed the room, grabbed Alessia by the throat, and slammed her hard against the doorframe.

The tray clattered to the floor, scalding broth spilling everywhere.

He pressed the cold steel barrel of the gun directly between her eyes.

"Get out!" Julian roared, his bandaged fingers digging deeply into her pale neck.

He issued a public death threat, right in front of me.

"If you ever touch her or speak to her again, you are dead. Do you understand me?"

Alessia choked, her eyes wide with genuine terror, her facade finally cracking.

"Stop," I ordered. "Don't spill her blood in this room. Death is too easy for her."

Julian's jaw locked. The autumn chill blowing in from the window vent seemed to catch in his throat, forming a mist before his trembling lips.

He lowered the weapon, but his grip on her throat didn't loosen.

He threw her out into the hallway and slammed the door shut, the deafening crash shaking the walls.

He turned back to look at me, his posture pleading and anxious.

See? He seemed to be saying. See? See how I'm protecting you now?

I scoffed, entirely unmoved by the spectacle.

"Is your pathetic performance over?" I asked coldly.

Julian stumbled back as if his bones had turned to jelly.

"Sienna, please. You have to listen to me—"

I closed my eyes.

I completely tuned out his frantic explanations.

I didn't say another word, just lay there breathing in the heavy, apathetic silence.

Defeated, stripped of his dignity and power, the Don finally turned and stumbled out of the room, leaving me alone in the quiet.

A hollow, agonizing ache throbbed in my chest.

Despite the soreness all over my body, I reached under my pillow and pulled out my burner phone.

I established a secure channel with Lucian.

I typed a single message: Declare war on the Rossi Empire.

It was time.

Three seconds later, Lucian replied.

Yes.

Lucian had never been Julian's man; his loyalty belonged solely to me.