Sienna POV

I cornered him in the narrow hallway near the restrooms, where the orchestral music from the ballroom was muffled to a dull, rhythmic thrum.

Desperation clawing at my throat, I slammed my hand against his chest to stop him.

Dante looked down at me, his expression tightening with annoyance.

"What is it now, Sienna?"

I held up my cracked phone, my hand trembling as I showed him the photo.

Then, I let my hands speak for me. I signed aggressively, my movements sharp and jagged.

She did this. Valeria sent this.

Dante glanced at the photo for barely a second.

He didn't look angry. He looked utterly indifferent.

"It's a picture of you working, Sienna. It's the truth. Why are you ashamed of where you come from?"

My mouth opened in a silent scream of frustration. The sound died in my throat, choking me.

It's humiliation! I signed, my fingers flying. She is mocking me to the entire Family!

Dante caught my hands again, stilling my voice.

"Valeria is the daughter of a Made Man. She has class. She wouldn't stoop to sending petty texts. This was probably one of your old friends from the docks looking for a shakedown."

He released me, dusting off his suit jacket as if my touch had soiled it.

"Fix your face. It's your birthday dinner in ten minutes. Stop acting like a victim."

He walked away.

He defended her.

He would always defend her.

The dinner was held in a private dining room off the main hall, a space reserved for the elite.

The table was long, laden with crystal and silver, and filled with the inner circle.

Valeria sat across from me, perfectly poised.

As the waiters brought out the antipasto, the wife of a soldier next to me leaned in.

She sniffed the air theatrically, wrinkling her nose.

"Do you smell that?" she asked the table, her voice pitched just loud enough to carry. "Smells like... low tide."

The table erupted in polite, cruel laughter.

Valeria covered her smile with a linen napkin, her eyes dancing with malice.

I stared at my plate.

I gripped my fork so hard the metal dug into my skin, anchoring me to reality.

Suddenly, the large screen on the wall—meant for a slideshow of my life—flickered.

Static hissed through the speakers.

But it wasn't a picture of me that materialized.

It was a picture of Valeria.

She was naked. Tied to a bedpost.

And she wasn't alone.

She was with a man who was definitely not Dante. It was a rival soldier.

The room exploded.

Chairs scraped violently against the floor as men jumped to their feet.

Valeria shrieked, shattering the glass-fragile atmosphere.

"Turn it off! Turn it off!"

She looked at Dante, her eyes wide with panic.

Then, finding her scapegoat, she pointed a trembling finger at me.

"She did this!" Valeria screamed. "She hacked the system! She's trying to frame me!"

Dante stood up.

His face was a mask of thunder.

He looked at the screen, then at Valeria, and finally, he turned his cold gaze upon me.

He didn't see the truth.

He didn't see that I lacked the skills, the resources, or the access to do this.

He only saw his mistress humiliated.

And his wife sitting there, stone-faced.

"Sienna," he said.

It was not a question. It was a warning.

A sentence.

He believed her.

Again.

Sienna POV

Valeria didn’t just cry.

She crumbled.

She snatched a steak knife from the table, pressing the serrated edge against her wrist with trembling hands.

"I can’t live with this shame!" she wailed, her tear-filled eyes locking onto Dante. "She ruined me! Everyone has seen it!"

It was a performance.

I knew it.

Even Gia, who was pouring wine in the corner as part of her cover, knew it.

But Dante?

Dante saw a damsel in distress.

He slapped the knife from Valeria’s grip and crushed her against his chest, shielding her from the world.

Then, he turned his gaze on me.

It was a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

"You wanted to make a scene?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft. "You wanted to bring the gutter into my house?"

He signaled to Rocco.

"Bring the crates."

My blood ran cold.

Rocco hesitated, glancing nervously at the guests. "Boss, this is a formal dinne—"

"BRING THEM!" Dante roared, the sound vibrating through the crystal glasses.

Two soldiers scrambled out, returning moments later lugging heavy wooden crates from the kitchen.

The stench hit the room instantly.

Rotting fish guts. A thick, cloying wave of waste from the day’s catch, meant for the disposal unit.

Dante pointed a shaking finger at me.

"You act like trash, you get treated like trash."

He grabbed the first crate.

He didn’t hesitate.

He upended it over my head.

Slime, scales, and cold blood cascaded down my hair. It ruined the pristine white dress, soaking into my skin, chilling me to the bone.

The smell was vomit-inducing.

The room went deathly silent.

Even the cruelest of the wives looked away, unable to stomach the sight.

Dante stood over me, his chest heaving.

"You belong in the gutter, Sienna. Don’t ever forget that."

I stood there.

Dripping.

Slowly, deliberately, I wiped a fish scale from my eyelid.

I looked at him.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t tremble.

Something inside me—the last fragile piece of the girl who hoped he might still love her—finally snapped.

It broke clean off.

I looked at Valeria, who was smirking into Dante’s shirt.

I looked at Dante, the King who was nothing more than a tyrant in a bespoke suit.

I reached into my pocket.

My fingers brushed against the cold glass of the vial.

Okay, I thought.

You want a tragedy?

I’ll give you a tragedy.

I turned and walked out of the room, leaving a glistening trail of slime on the expensive Persian rug.

I wasn’t walking away in shame.

I was walking toward my grave.

And he was coming with me.

Sienna POV

The private clinic reeked of antiseptic and sharp lemon polish, a violent contrast to the stench of rotting fish that still clung to my hair.

I sat on the crinkling paper of the exam table, shivering.

Not from cold.

It was from the sight of Dante pacing the hallway outside the frosted glass door.

His tuxedo jacket was gone. His white shirt was rolled to the elbows, marred by bright crimson.

Valeria’s blood.

She had collapsed twenty minutes after the chaos in the dining room. Foam spilling from her mouth. Seizures racking her body.

I had slipped the powder into her wine glass right before she threw it at the wall.

I thought I had failed.

I thought the wine dripping down the plaster was the end of it.

But she must have taken a sip. Just one fatal sip.

The door flew open with a bang.

The family doctor, a man named Dr. Moretti who had stitched up more bullet holes than surgical incisions, walked in. He looked ashen.

Dante followed him, sucking the air out of the small room just by stepping inside.

"She is losing blood fast," Moretti said, his voice trembling. "The toxin is destroying her red blood cells. We need a transfusion immediately or she goes into cardiac arrest."

Dante looked at me.

His eyes were voids.

"Test her," he ordered.

Moretti hesitated. "Boss, Sienna is severely anemic. Her records show—"

"I said test her!" Dante slammed his hand against the metal cabinet. Instruments clattered inside. "Valeria is O-negative. It's rare. Sienna is the only other O-negative in the family."

I shook my head.

My hands shook as I signed, No.

I signed, Let her die.

Dante crossed the room in two predatory strides.

He grabbed my face, his fingers digging into my jaw so hard I thought the bone would snap.

"You did this," he hissed. "I saw the residue in the glass. You tried to kill a Made Woman."

He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear.

"You wanted blood, Sienna? Now you'll give it. Every drop if necessary."

He turned to the doctor.

"Hook her up. Direct line. Drain her until Valeria is stable."

"But she might go into shock," Moretti whispered.

Dante didn't even blink.

"Then she goes into shock."

They strapped my arm down.

I didn't fight. What was the point?

The needle pierced my skin. It was a thick gauge. It hurt less than his words.

I watched the tube fill with dark red liquid.

My life.

Flowing out of me and into the woman who made my existence a living hell.

Dante stood by Valeria’s bed in the next room, watching the monitor through the open door. He held her hand.

He didn't look at me once.

The room began to spin. Black spots danced in my vision.

My heart fluttered like a trapped bird against my ribs.

I was fading.

And as the numb coldness crept up my limbs, I realized the cruelest joke of all.

I couldn't even kill properly.

I wasn't a wife. I wasn't even human.

I was just a spare part. A blood bag for the King's whore.