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.