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."

Sienna Vitiello POV

The silence in the VIP booth was deafening, louder than the heavy bass thumping against the floorboards beneath our feet.

Dante stared at me.

His jaw worked, a muscle feathering tight under the skin. He wasn't used to being the regret; he was used to being the prize.

He stood up abruptly, the movement sharp with frustration.

"Let’s go," he said to Valeria.

But he didn't look at her. He was glaring at me.

Valeria scrambled to follow him, shooting me a look of pure venom as she gathered her things.

Dante stopped at our table.

He placed his hands on the surface, leaning in until he loomed over me.

"You’re drunk, Sienna," he said, his voice low and warning.

"I’m sober, Dante," I replied, leaning back into the plush booth to put distance between us. "That’s the problem."

He scoffed, shaking his head.

"You owe me your life. If I hadn't pulled the car over—"

"You pulled the car over to save her," I interrupted, my voice cutting through his defense.

I pointed a trembling finger at Valeria.

"And you left me to burn. We both know it. Stop pretending it was strategy."

Giulia stood up, slamming her hand on the table hard enough to rattle the glasses.

"Get out, Dante!" she screamed, her face flushed. "You are dishonoring us! You are dishonoring the Vitiello name!"

Dante straightened up, buttoning his jacket with deliberate slowness.

He looked at his sister, then turned his cold gaze back to me.

"I would choose her a hundred times," he said, his voice devoid of warmth as he nodded toward Valeria. "I owe her husband a blood debt. Sienna is just... a contract."

He said it.

He finally said it out loud.

I waited for the pain, but instead, I felt a strange sense of relief wash over me.

It was like the final shackle had snapped.

"Good," I said.

I stood up and walked past him.

I didn't touch him. I didn't brush against him. I treated him like a ghost.

I walked out of the club, hailed a cab, and went straight to the penthouse we were supposed to share after the wedding.

The moment I stepped inside, I went into the master bedroom.

I marched to the kitchen and pulled a heavy black trash bag from under the sink.

Returning to the bedroom, I threw the closet doors open.

I took the custom shirts I had bought him, the fabric cool under my fingers. The watch I had engraved with a promise that now meant nothing. The framed photos of us that sat mocking me on the dresser.

I swept them all into the bag.

I went to the bathroom next.

His cologne. His razor. The expensive moisturizer he pretended he didn't use.

Into the bag.

I dragged the heavy plastic sack to the trash chute in the hallway.

I yanked the hatch open.

With a shove, I sent the bag into the void.

I listened to it slide down, down, down, until it hit the bottom with a distant, final thud.

I went back into the apartment, the silence now feeling different. Cleansed.

I sat at the desk and pulled out a sheet of heavy, cream-colored stationery.

It bore the letterhead of the Moretti Art Foundation.

I picked up a pen.

To the Board of Directors,

Effective immediately, I resign from my position as Director.

I wish you luck. You’re going to need it.

Sincerely,

Sienna Vitiello

I signed it with a flourish.

I placed the pen down and looked around the empty apartment.

It didn't feel like home.

It felt like a cage I had finally found the key to.

I walked to the window and looked out at the Chicago skyline.

The city was burning with lights, a sprawling ocean of electricity.

"Let it burn," I whispered.

I was done playing the firefighter.

Sienna Vitiello POV

The boardroom smelled sharp—a mix of lemon polish and nervous sweat.

My team sat around the mahogany table, their eyes bright with restless anticipation.

They had brought champagne.

It was hidden in the mini-fridge, waiting for the official announcement.

It was an open secret that the directorship was mine.

I had built the International Branch from a rough concept on a napkin to a fully funded initiative.

I had secured the impossible permits in Milan. I had courted the skittish investors in Paris.

"Good luck, Sienna," my assistant whispered, squeezing my hand under the table. "You deserve this."

I forced a smile, but my stomach felt heavy, as if I had swallowed a stone.

The heavy oak doors swung open.

Dante walked in.

He didn't spare me a glance.

He walked to the head of the table, his presence instantly dominating the space, demanding absolute attention.

He was followed by Valeria.

She was wearing a white suit tailored to perfection, yet on her, it looked like a costume. She looked like she was playing dress-up.

She sat in the chair to his right.

My chair.

The room went deadly silent.

Dante placed a single file on the table.

"As you know, we are expanding into Europe," he began, his voice a smooth baritone that used to make my knees weak.

Now, it just made me nauseous.

"This expansion requires a vision that aligns with the future of the Moretti family."

He paused, finally flicking his gaze to me.

His eyes were blank. Strictly business.

"Therefore, I am appointing Valeria Rossi as the new Director of the International Branch."

A collective gasp rippled around the table.

My assistant dropped her pen.

It clattered loudly against the floor—a gunshot in the quiet room.

Valeria smiled, a modest, practiced tilt of her head.

"Thank you, Dante," she said softly. "I look forward to bringing my European expertise to the team."

Expertise?

She had spent the last five years shopping in Milan, not working.

"But... Mr. Moretti," one of the senior architects spoke up, his voice trembling. "Sienna has led this project for two years. She knows every detail."

Dante’s gaze snapped to the architect.

"Valeria has the aesthetic vision we need," he said coldly. "Sienna is... efficient. But we need inspiration."

Efficient.

He had reduced seven years of my life—my passion, my sweat, and my blood—into a word used for a household appliance.

I looked at Valeria.

She was beaming at him, her hand resting possessively on his arm.

She didn't want the job. She wanted the title. She wanted to take the one thing I had left outside of him.

I stood up.

The chair scraped harshly against the floor.

Dante looked at me, a challenge in his eyes.

"Sit down, Sienna," he ordered. "We aren't finished."

I didn't sit.

I picked up the folder in front of me. The one containing the strategy for the next quarter.

I walked to the head of the table.

I placed the folder gently in front of Valeria.

"Good luck," I said.

My voice was steady. Too steady.

"You’ll need to know the zoning laws for the warehouse district by Friday. They change every month."

Valeria blinked, looking at the folder like it was a bomb.

"Sienna," Dante warned, his voice dropping dangerously.

I turned to him.

I looked at the man who had promised to protect me, only to feed me to the wolves.

"I’m happy for you, Dante," I said. "You finally found someone who matches your level of competence."

I turned and walked out.

I heard him call my name.

I didn't stop.

I walked past the hidden champagne.

I hoped they drank it. And I hoped it tasted like vinegar.