Sienna Vitiello POV

The pain in my ribs was a dull roar, a constant, throbbing reminder of the crash, but the doctor had insisted that walking would help prevent blood clots.

I shuffled down the pristine white corridor of the VIP wing, clutching the IV pole like a lifeline.

I needed air.

I needed to escape the stinging smell of antiseptic and the suffocating weight of my own history.

I turned the corner and nearly collided with a wall of muscle.

I looked up.

It was him.

Dante Moretti.

Up close, he was even more intimidating than the blurry memories suggested.

He smelled of gunpowder, expensive cologne, and stale smoke—a volatile mix.

He looked down at me, his jaw tight.

"You’re out of bed," he stated.

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

"I need to walk," I said, my voice flat.

He narrowed his eyes, scanning my face for the usual adoration I apparently used to drown him in.

He seemed unsettled when he didn't find it.

"You shouldn't be wandering," he said, stepping around me. "You’re prone to dizziness."

"How would you know?" I asked. "You weren't in the ambulance."

He stopped.

His back stiffened.

He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing into slits.

"Are we doing this, Sienna? I made a tactical decision. Valeria was in the front seat. She was trapped."

I looked at him, really looked at him.

He was handsome in a cruel, sharp way.

But all I saw was the man who calculated my life was worth less than his guilt over a dead soldier.

"I’m not doing anything, Dante," I said. "I’m just stating facts."

A door down the hall clicked open.

Valeria Rossi stepped out.

She was wearing a silk robe that looked soft enough to sleep on, her dark hair perfectly cascaded over one shoulder.

She had a small bandage on her forehead. A scratch.

Dante’s entire demeanor shifted.

The ice melted instantly.

He walked past me as if I were a piece of furniture and went to her.

"Val," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming tender. "You should be resting. The doctor said you have mild shock."

"I’m okay, Dante," she said, her voice breathy and fragile. "I was just looking for you."

She looked over his shoulder and saw me.

Her eyes widened, but there was a glint of triumph in them.

"Oh, Sienna. You’re awake."

Dante put a protective hand on her lower back.

"Sienna was just going for a walk," he said dismissively.

He didn't introduce me as his fiancée.

He didn't ask about my concussion.

He introduced me like I was an inconvenience he hadn't figured out how to schedule yet.

"This is Giulia’s friend," he said to a nurse passing by. "Make sure she gets back to her room."

Giulia’s friend.

I felt a laugh bubble up in my chest, but I swallowed it down.

It tasted like ash.

I looked at the two of them.

The King and his fragile favorite.

I realized then that my amnesia was the greatest gift God could have given me.

It stripped away the delusion.

I didn't say a word.

I didn't beg for his attention.

I didn't ask him why he was holding her like she was made of glass while I was holding myself together with stitches.

I just turned around and continued my walk.

I heard his footsteps pause.

He was watching me leave.

He was waiting for me to turn back, to look at him with those puppy-dog eyes Giulia told me about.

I kept walking.

I didn't look back once.

Sienna Vitiello POV

The hospital garden was a manicured lie—an oasis of vibrant green in the middle of the concrete city.

There was a large decorative pool in the center, deep enough for koi fish and lined with slippery marble.

I sat on a stone bench, watching the water ripple.

My head was still aching, a constant, throbbing reminder of the windshield I had become intimate with.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel path.

I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

The scent of cloying, overly sweet perfume announced her arrival before she even spoke.

"It’s peaceful here, isn't it?" Valeria asked.

She stood next to the pool, examining her manicured nails.

She looked pristine. Untouched. A porcelain doll in a world of broken glass.

I didn't answer.

"Dante is so worried about me," she continued, her voice dripping with faux concern. "He hasn't left my side. He even changed my bandages himself."

"That’s nice," I said, watching a fish swim in lazy circles.

"He feels responsible for me," she said, turning to face me. "Because of my husband. Because he couldn't save him."

I looked at her then.

"And he saved you this time," I said. "To balance the ledger."

She smiled, a sharp, predatory thing.

"He will always save me, Sienna. You’re just... the obligation. The Vitiello contract."

She pulled her phone out of her pocket.

"I was going to take a selfie for him," she said, holding it over the water. "To show him I’m feeling better."

She fumbled.

Her fingers opened. It wasn’t a slip; it was a release. It was a clumsy, theatrical fumble.

"Oops," she said.

The phone splashed into the water and sank to the bottom.

"Oh no! My photos!"

She looked at me, her eyes gleaming with malice.

Then, she stepped onto the slick marble edge.

I watched, fascinated by the performance.

She bent down, pretending to reach for the phone, and then threw her weight forward.

Splash.

She hit the water with a shriek that could shatter glass.

"Help! I can't swim! Help!"

She was standing in waist-deep water, flapping her arms like a dying bird.

"Dante!" she screamed.

He appeared instantly, bursting from the patio doors like a demon summoned by a blood ritual.

He didn't register the depth of the water.

He didn't see the fact that she was clearly buoyant.

He saw her in distress, and logic was extinguished.

He dove in, ruining his bespoke suit, and scooped her up in his arms.

He carried her to the edge, dripping wet, his face a mask of panic.

"Are you okay? Did you swallow water?" he demanded, brushing wet hair from her face.

Valeria coughed, a delicate, staged sound.

"She... she pushed me," she sobbed, pointing a shaking finger at me.

I sat on the bench, unmoving.

Dante’s head snapped toward me.

The look in his eyes wasn't just anger. It was hatred.

"You pushed her?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

I stood up, wincing as my ribs protested.

"She jumped, Dante. The water is three feet deep."

"Liar!" he roared.

He set Valeria down gently on the grass and marched toward me.

He was a storm of violence, soaking wet and terrifying.

"You violated the peace," he spat. "You tried to harm a protected guest."

"I didn't touch her."

He didn't listen.

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my existing bruise.

"You want to see what drowning feels like?"

He shoved me.

Hard.

I flew backward, the air leaving my lungs before I even hit the water.

I crashed into the pool, my side slamming against the marble rim on the way down.

Pain exploded in my torso like a grenade.

The cold water rushed over my head.

I thrashed, trying to find the surface, but my heavy hospital gown dragged me down.

My wound tore open. I felt the warm seep of blood mixing with the chlorine.

I broke the surface, gasping, choking.

Dante stood on the edge, looking down at me with cold indifference.

His bodyguards moved to help me.

"Don't touch her!" he ordered. "Let her learn her lesson."

I struggled to the edge, my vision blurring.

I watched him turn his back on me.

He picked up Valeria, cooing to her, and carried her away toward the warmth of the hospital.

He left his fiancée bleeding in a pool of decorative fish.

And in that cold merciless water, as I shivered uncontrollably, the last remnant of the old Sienna drowned.

Sienna Vitiello POV

I lied to Giulia.

I told her I had slipped in the shower.

If I told her the truth—that the Underboss of the Chicago Outfit had assaulted the daughter of the Vitiello Consigliere—it wouldn’t just cause a scene. It would start a war.

My father would call for blood. The Commission would intervene.

I wasn't ready for war. I needed an exit strategy first.

So I sat in the VIP booth of The Velvet Room, a glass of ice water in my hand, watching the strobe lights cut through the thick, manufactured smoke.

Giulia had organized this "Freedom Party" to celebrate my discharge from the hospital.

She was trying so hard.

"Look," she said, sliding a stack of polaroids across the sticky table.

They were old photos. Artifacts from another life. Me and Dante at a gala. Me and Dante at Christmas.

I stared at my own face in the glossy prints. I looked desperate. I was leaning into him, my body curved like a question mark, my eyes wide with adoration. He looked bored, his gaze somewhere else.

"Do you feel anything?" Giulia asked, her voice laced with fragile hope.

I looked at the stranger in the photo.

"I feel sad for her," I said honestly. "She looks hungry."

Giulia sighed, sweeping the photos back into her purse.

The music shifted, dropping into a heavy, vibrating bass beat.

Then, the velvet curtain to the VIP section parted.

The air in the room changed instantly. It became heavier, charged with a sudden, suffocating static.

Dante walked in.

He was wearing a fresh suit, black on black, cut to fit his broad shoulders perfectly.

Valeria was on his arm, wearing a red dress that was less a garment and more a second skin.

They looked like royalty. Dark, twisted royalty.

Dante scanned the room, his predator’s gaze sweeping over the crowd until it landed on me.

He paused.

He probably expected me to be at home, crying into a pillow, hiding my bruises.

Instead, I was here. Wearing a black slip dress, my hair slicked back to cover the bandage on my temple.

I held his gaze. I didn't blink.

He frowned, a tiny, almost imperceptible crease appearing between his brows.

Breaking eye contact first, he guided Valeria to the booth opposite ours.

They held court. Soldiers brought them drinks immediately. Women vied for a second of Dante’s attention. Valeria preened like a peacock, soaking it all in.

Giulia glared at them.

"Ignore him," she said fiercely. "Let’s play a game."

Someone suggested Truth or Dare.

It was childish, but we were drunk on expensive vodka and the proximity to power.

The empty bottle spun on the table.

It slowed, wobbled, and landed on me.

"Truth or Dare, Sienna?" a soldier named Marco asked.

"Truth," I said.

Marco grinned, glancing nervously at Dante across the aisle before turning back to me.

"Who was your first love?"

The table went dead quiet.

Everyone knew the answer. It was supposed to be Dante. It was always Dante.

I took a slow sip of my water.

I looked at the glass, watching a bead of condensation slide down the rim and onto my finger.

I thought about the seven years of handwritten notes. The deleted photos. The cold, shocking water of the pool.

"My first love?" I repeated.

I looked directly at Dante.

He was watching me, a glass of amber scotch halfway to his mouth.

He looked arrogant. Assured. Certain of my answer.

"It was a waste of time," I said clearly, my voice cutting through the thumping music like a blade.

Dante’s hand froze in mid-air.

"Seven years of loyalty given to a ghost," I continued, my tone bored, almost clinical. "I regret every single second of it."

Valeria gasped.

Dante set his glass down. Hard. The liquid sloshed over the rim, staining the table.

I turned back to Marco and offered him a thin, razor-sharp smile.

"Next question."