Siena POV
My lungs feel as if they are filling with crushed ice; each gasp is a tearing sensation as I press my face against the cold, wet glass, staring at Fabiano.
“You know I am terrified of water.”
I mouth the words to him slowly, hoping he can read my lips through the heavy downpour.
A violent shudder runs through my body as the water pools around my ankles.
The roar of the sprinklers becomes a white noise that erases all other sound, drowning out the music from the ballroom.
My vision blurs, and I am in a luxury penthouse no longer.
I am eight years old again.
I am trapped in a collapsing syndicate smuggling warehouse during a torrential storm.
Gunfire echoes in the dark as the roof caves in, and floodwaters rush through the broken doors.
I can still feel my mother's hands pushing me onto a high wooden crate just before the black water pulled her under.
That was the night I learned to fear enclosed spaces, the dark, and the sound of rushing water.
It is a phobia I have hidden from the underworld—a secret I only told one person.
I had confided in Fabiano on a quiet night three years ago, when he held me in the dark and swore to be the shield against my fears.
Now, he has allowed my greatest vulnerability to be turned into a parlor game for his soldiers.
Viviana turns to the crowd of mobsters on the terrace.
“Let’s make this interesting,” she calls, raising her voice over their laughter.
“If she doesn't beg within thirty minutes, I lose.”
“But if she breaks and cries like a baby, every Capo here transfers a hundred grand to my account.”
The mobsters roar in approval.
A Capo in a gray suit pulls out his phone to record me.
“A rat from the gutters has no right to marry the future Don anyway!” he yells, making sure I can hear it through the intercom.
My fingers go numb from the cold.
My open palms strike the glass, the flat, wet smack swallowed by the deluge.
“Fabiano!”
I scream his name into the microphone, demanding he look at me.
“Open this door right now!”
Fabiano finally turns his head back toward the glass.
His jaw tightens, and his expression darkens with irritation.
“Stop making a scene in front of the syndicate elite, Siena.”
His voice is sharp, carrying a tone of annoyance rather than concern.
“Viviana is just being playful.”
“You should know how to handle minor inconveniences without embarrassing me.”
I freeze.
The water continues to dump over my head, but I cannot feel the cold anymore.
A hollow, mocking smile touches my lips.
My trauma—the memory of my mother dying—is nothing but a ‘minor inconvenience’ to him.
Viviana catches sight of my smile, and her eyes narrow with fury.
“You think this is funny?”
She presses a button on the remote.
The water pressure increases.
The force of the blast hits me like a physical blow, nearly knocking me off my feet.
I stumble backward, my high heels slipping on the flooded marble floor.
The crowd outside cheers louder, raising their glasses to toast my humiliation.
Viviana steps up and presses her face close to the glass, until only an inch separates us.
“Do you want to know a secret, Siena?”
Her voice drops to a whisper as she speaks directly into the external microphone, a sound that crackles through the speaker.
“I didn't just guess your little phobia.”
“Fabiano gave it to me.”
The words hung in the frozen air between us, the final key turning in a lock I never wanted to believe existed.
Siena POV
The roar of the water suddenly seems to recede, replaced by a high, thin ringing deep in my ears, and the light from the terrace begins to warp at the edges.
Fabiano had willingly handed his childhood friend the weapon needed to destroy me.
On the other side of the thick glass, Viviana throws her head back and laughs.
“You are just a pathetic little girl afraid of the dark,” she sneers, “masquerading as a financial architect.”
My knees buckle, and my knuckles scrape against the slick glass to keep myself from collapsing, leaving a murky trail of sweat and condensation, yet fail to push it open by so much as a millimeter.
The last three years flash before my eyes.
The acrid smell of cigars in a dim office at four in the morning, the tremor in my hand as I altered ledgers to save his life—all of it now feels like barbs lodged in my throat.
“Without you, I am nothing.”
The memory of him on the floor of my apartment, pressing his face into my palms, burns through my mind.
“When I take the seat of Don, you will be my Mafia Queen.”
The truth washes over me, a realization far colder than the water filling the room.
I was never his partner.
I was merely a tool, efficient and disposable.
Viviana taps her long, manicured nails against the glass, drawing my attention back.
“Know your place, street rat.”
She turns away from me and saunters over to Fabiano.
She pouts her lips and rests a hand on his chest.
“Are you mad at me, Fabiano?”
Fabiano looks down at her, his face an unreadable mask.
He takes a final, measured drag of his cigar and slowly crushes it out in a crystal ashtray.
“Do not take it too far, Viviana.”
His warning is mild—a tone reserved not for a subordinate, but for a favored, misbehaving pet.
“You promised I could have my fun tonight!”
Viviana protests loudly, her voice carrying to make sure the entire terrace can hear her.
“Besides, everyone knows your engagement to her was just a tactical alliance.”
I step closer to the microphone.
“Is she telling the truth, Fabiano?”
My voice is unnervingly calm, cutting through the party's ambient hum.
Fabiano does not flinch.
He looks at me through the glass, his expression detached.
“It is merely tactical, Siena,”
he explains, his tone as casual as if we are discussing a stock portfolio.
“A Romano Don cannot marry based on sentiment. The Falcone bloodline is the only pedigree fit to stand beside the head of the Famiglia.”
I stare through the water-streaked glass at the man I bled for.
“Then what am I to you?”
The question fell into a silence that answered everything.
