Sienna POV

The monster's smile was gone now. Good. I wanted his ugly, real face out in the open.

Lorenzo gave no sign he had heard the explosive accusation.

The color of his eyes seemed to darken, shifting to the murky, volatile grey of churning storm water. Mama’s eyes looked like the sky before a summer storm. His just looked like a dirty puddle.

He stepped closer, his considerable frame eclipsing the sun and casting a long, cold shadow over me.

"Did Valentina orchestrate this display?" he demanded, the question edged with suspicion.

I tightened my grip on the thick stack of trust documents, holding them securely behind my back.

"My mother knows nothing of this," I stated. My voice didn’t shake, but my knees wanted to.

"She would never have permitted me to step into the crosshairs if she knew my purpose."

At my defiance, Lorenzo's handsome features seemed to freeze, becoming a mask of cold stone. Like the gargoyles on the old cathedral.

His gaze passed over me as if I were a piece of refuse to be scraped from the sole of his shoe.

"You ran away," he accused, his voice cracking like a whip, "and caused a contemptible scene that brings disrespect to the Family."

I held his gaze without flinching. A monster in my face was still better than a slow death in my own home.

"I ran away to save my mother from a monster," I admitted.

A ripple of derisive laughter passed through the gathered Syndicate wives. They laughed like hyenas, happy to see someone else being torn apart.

They pointed their manicured fingers at me, their whispers a venomous commentary on my lack of manners.

Ignoring them, Lorenzo crouched, bringing his face level with mine.

His voice dropped to a silken whisper, a tone meant only for me and the nearest guards. His breath smelled like coffee and lies.

"Camilla is the sister of Dominic, a fallen Soldier," he claimed, his eyes narrowing.

"I am bound by a blood oath to see to her welfare."

I stared into the Capo's lying, storm-water eyes. He was so good at this. But I’d seen this movie before. I knew the ending.

"How many months pregnant is Camilla?" I asked, my voice ringing with crystalline clarity.

Lorenzo did not hesitate.

"She is four months along," he answered.

"That is fascinating," I replied, feeling the trap snap shut on him, "considering Soldier Dominic was killed in a cartel shootout precisely two months ago."

The laughter from the wives was cut off as if by a guillotine.

The silence that followed was a physical weight, a pressure on the eardrums that comes before a storm.

In that quiet, the ugly truth from my past life surfaced.

Camilla had loudly claimed the child was Dominic's orphaned blood.

But when the baby was born, it bore the same distinct birthmark on its neck as Lorenzo.

Lorenzo's sharp features seemed to stiffen, a mask of shock taking hold. I did that. I made a Capo look like a stupid, caught rat.

I could see the precise moment he understood he had walked into a trap laid by a six-year-old.

Behind him, Enforcer Ricci hesitated, his stoic expression faltering.

Leaning in, he spoke in a low tone, confirming the timeline of Dominic's death to the surrounding guards.

Lorenzo's gaze snapped back to my face.

His large hands balled into tight, white-knuckled fists. I thought he might hit me. I wanted him to try. If he hit me now, the whole world would see.

"Who taught you to spin such dangerous fictions?" he demanded, his voice strained with a rage he could barely contain.

I lifted my chin, meeting his fury with a calm I did not feel, and answered, "My father, Carlo. I read the secret journals he left behind."

Lorenzo's face went slack for a fraction of a heartbeat, the mask cracking just enough to reveal the terror beneath. Secret journals. The words hung between us like a live grenade. I watched his mind race, frantically cataloguing every document he had ever signed, every backroom deal, every drop of blood he had spilled beside my father—and he realized, with dawning horror, that he had no idea what Carlo might have written down before he died.

Sienna POV

I knew he’d try to grab the papers. Bullies always did. So I ran.

As Lorenzo lunged forward to snatch the trust documents, I had already anticipated his move. He was big and slow. I was small and fast, and I wasn’t afraid to get scraped knees.

I bolted toward the inner courtyard as fast as my small legs could carry me, my lungs aching as I screamed at the top of my lungs for an audience with Don Salvatore.

The cobblestones were uneven and slick with morning dew.

My shoe slipped, and the impact of my knees on the hard stone sent a jarring shock up my legs, scraping the skin. I didn't stop. The sting was nothing compared to what would happen if I lost.

Lorenzo caught up to me instantly.

His large hand clamped down on my arm—a brutal pressure that felt as if it bruised the bone. His fingers were like iron bars.

The Mafia wives trailed behind us, their frantic voices urging Lorenzo to silence the brat before she brought the Don's wrath upon them all. They weren’t worried about me. They were just scared for themselves.

They sounded terrified of the noise I was making.

A raw desperation took hold of me. I turned my head and sank my teeth deep into Lorenzo's hand. The skin was salty and the fabric of his glove was rough, and I bit down with every bit of hate from my other life.

He cursed loudly, yanking his hand away and sending me tumbling backward onto the ground.

The trust documents scattered across the gray stone. For one terrible second, my heart stopped. They were everything.

The papers slid across the courtyard and were abruptly stopped by the polished, bespoke leather shoe of Don Salvatore.

I looked up.

The Dark Don stood atop the marble steps, attended by his Underboss and Consigliere. He wasn’t just a man. He was a shadow given form, a weight in the air that made it hard to breathe.

The air around him seemed to grow dense, heavy with an authority that suffocated.

His chilling voice echoed across the courtyard, demanding to know who dared assault a child on his grounds.

Lorenzo immediately straightened his posture, adopting the stance of a loyal, respectful Capo. He was a better actor than anyone on TV.

He dismissed the chaos with a smooth tone, explaining that his future stepdaughter was just throwing a tantrum over the wedding.

I scrambled up from the ground, a trickle of blood making its way down my scraped knees. I made sure the Don could see the blood.

I grabbed the torn marriage petition from the cobblestones and thrust it toward the Don, objecting to the Family-sanctioned union.

I then turned my fierce gaze to the mocking wives.

I asked them loudly if it was Syndicate tradition for a Made Man to move his pregnant mistress into the family estate the day before his wedding.

Don Salvatore's gaze, heavy and lethal, shifted slowly from me to Lorenzo, and the temperature in the courtyard seemed to drop.

He demanded an explanation for the estate arrangements.

Lorenzo smoothly lied, claiming Camilla was frail and only staying temporarily for protection.

The Don's expression did not shift. His gloved fingers drummed once against the silver head of his cane—a single, measured beat that echoed through the silent courtyard like the tick of a clock counting down. Every Capo in the Family knew what that sound meant. It was the sound of Don Salvatore filing away a discrepancy, cataloguing a debt. I’d won. I’d really won. The Don was listening to me, a child, and not to the lying Capo. Lorenzo's smooth lies had bought him minutes, not absolution. I had seen that look in my past life, always moments before someone's garden was painted red.