Sienna Vitiello POV

New York was loud, dirty, and unapologetically alive.

I loved it instantly.

I took a cab straight to the safe house in Brooklyn, where my parents were waiting.

They didn't scold me. They didn't ask a single question about the broken alliance.

My father, the very man who had drafted the marriage contract, broke down when he saw the angry red burns marring my arm.

"We heard," he choked out, pulling me into a hug that was desperate yet careful. "Giulia called. To hell with the Morettis."

I slept for three days, a coma of exhaustion.

When I finally woke, I was ready.

I chose a long-sleeved silk blouse—professional, but more importantly, opaque enough to hide the bandages.

I wasn't going to hide in my parents' house, licking my wounds. I needed to work. I needed to be Sienna Vitiello, the architect, not the runaway ex-fiancée.

I applied to Falcone Enterprises.

It was a bold move; the Falcones were the sworn rivals of the Chicago Outfit.

But their construction division was legitimate, and quite simply, they were the best.

I walked into the glass skyscraper in Manhattan, feeling small against the scale of the city.

The lobby was sleek, modern, and intimidating.

I was waiting for the elevator when a man walked up beside me.

He was tall. Taller even than Dante.

He wore a navy suit that fit his broad frame with bespoke precision. He had dark hair, worn slightly long, and eyes the color of amber whiskey.

He wasn't looking at his phone. He was looking at me.

"Going up?" he asked.

His voice was deep, a rougher grit compared to Dante’s velvet tone.

"Yes," I said, my grip tightening on my portfolio.

He reached out and pressed the button for the top floor. The executive suite.

I pressed the button for the 20th. HR.

He glanced at the button, then back at me, his gaze calculating.

"Interview?"

"Yes."

"Good luck," he said, though it sounded less like a wish and more like a prediction.

The doors slid open on the 20th floor.

I stepped out.

"Thank you," I said.

He held the door open for a second too long, his gaze lingering on my face as if memorizing it.

I walked into the HR office, my heart hammering a strange rhythm.

The interview went well. I let my work speak for itself—my designs, the numbers from the International Branch.

The HR director looked impressed.

"Wait here," she said, standing up. "I need to show this to the CEO. He’s taking a personal interest in the new design team."

She left the room.

Ten minutes later, the door opened again.

It wasn't the HR director.

It was the man from the elevator.

He walked in with a predator's grace and sat on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So," he began, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "You’re the one who walked away from the Chicago Underboss."

I froze.

"You know who I am?"

"I make it my business to know everything, Sienna Vitiello."

He extended a hand.

"I’m Enzo Falcone."

The Don of the New York Mafia.

I hesitated.

I had just escaped one cage. Was I walking straight into another?

He seemed to read the conflict in my eyes.

"I’m not looking for a wife, Sienna," he said, his voice dropping to a serious, steady register. "I’m looking for an architect. And rumor has it, you’re the best."

I looked at his hand.

It was large, calloused. A dangerous hand.

But he was offering it, not grabbing me.

I took it.

"When do I start?" I asked.

Enzo smiled. It transformed his face from lethal to devastatingly handsome.

"Right now."

Sienna Vitiello POV

The blueprints had been a disaster when they first landed on my desk this morning—a chaotic sprawl of miscalculations. But by noon, I had coerced them into art.

I had been at Falcone Enterprises for three weeks.

In Chicago, I had been nothing more than an ornament. A wife-in-training schooled in the art of hosting a gala and keeping her pretty mouth shut.

Here, I was an architect.

I drew lines that became walls. I created spaces where people could live, breathe, and be safe.

Safe.

That was the only word that mattered to me now. Structure. Order. Control.

A sharp knock on my glass door shattered my concentration.

It was Enzo’s assistant. She was holding a vase.

Not roses.

Jasmine. Small, star-shaped white blooms that exhaled a scent of fresh rain and something wilder—freedom.

"Mr. Falcone thought you might like these," she said, placing them on the corner of my desk. "He said roses are too cliché for someone who builds skyscrapers."

I traced the velvet edge of a petal.

For seven years, Dante had sent roses. Red. Thorny. Predictable.

He never asked if I liked them. He just assumed every woman did.

Enzo noticed.

I looked through the glass wall of my office.

Enzo was in the conference room across the hall. He was leaning over a table, sleeves rolled up to expose the cords of his forearms, pointing at a map of the harbor.

As if sensing my gaze, he looked up.

His amber eyes locked onto mine.

He didn't smile. He didn’t look away. He just nodded, a small, acknowledging tilt of his head.

My heart did a strange, traitorous somersault in my chest.

I forced myself to look away.

I couldn't do this. I was damaged goods. I was a woman with a hole in her memory and a burn scar on her arm.

At five o'clock, he was waiting by the elevator.

"Dinner," he said. It wasn't a question.

I clutched my bag tighter, my knuckles turning white.

"Enzo, I can't. I’m not... I’m not ready for whatever this is."

He pressed the button for the lobby.

"You have to eat, Sienna. It’s just food. Unless you’re afraid of pasta."

I looked at him. He was teasing me.

Dante never teased. He commanded.

"One dinner," I said.

One dinner turned into three hours at a quiet Italian bistro in Brooklyn.

The wine was dark and heavy. I drank more than I should have.

The alcohol loosened the knot in my chest that had been tightening since I woke up in the hospital.

I told him about the amnesia.

I told him about waking up in a white room, knowing I was supposed to love a man who looked at me as if I were a piece of furniture he had purchased.

I didn't tell him about the fire. Not yet.

But the wine made me careless.

I reached for my glass, and my sleeve rode up.

The angry red welt on my forearm was exposed. The skin was puckered, a permanent reminder of the heat, the smoke, and the back of Dante’s suit as he walked away.

Enzo caught my wrist.

His grip was firm but gentle.

He didn't look away in disgust. He looked at the scar as if it were a map to a place he needed to understand.

"Who did this?" he asked. His voice was low, vibrating with a dangerous promise.

I pulled my arm back, covering it quickly.

"It was an accident," I lied. "A fire."

He looked at me. He saw the lie.

But he didn't push.

Instead, he reached across the table and took my hand again.

He lifted it to his lips.

He didn't kiss my knuckles.

With agonizing slowness, he pushed back the silk of my sleeve and pressed his lips directly against the scarred skin.

I gasped.

It should have hurt. It should have been ugly.

But his lips were warm.

"I promise you, Sienna," he whispered against my skin.

I froze.

"I will be the man who walks through fire for you," he said, his eyes burning into mine with a ferocity that stole my breath. "Not the one who leaves you to burn."

Tears pricked my eyes.

He knew.

He didn't need the details. He knew enough.

For the first time in seven years, the cold didn't reach me.