Chapter 10

Sienna Vitiello POV

New York was loud, dirty, and unapologetically alive.

I loved it instantly.

I took a cab straight to the safe house in Brooklyn, where my parents were waiting.

They didn't scold me. They didn't ask a single question about the broken alliance.

My father, the very man who had drafted the marriage contract, broke down when he saw the angry red burns marring my arm.

"We heard," he choked out, pulling me into a hug that was desperate yet careful. "Giulia called. To hell with the Morettis."

I slept for three days, a coma of exhaustion.

When I finally woke, I was ready.

I chose a long-sleeved silk blouse-professional, but more importantly, opaque enough to hide the bandages.

I wasn't going to hide in my parents' house, licking my wounds. I needed to work. I needed to be Sienna Vitiello, the architect, not the runaway ex-fiancée.

I applied to Falcone Enterprises.

It was a bold move; the Falcones were the sworn rivals of the Chicago Outfit.

But their construction division was legitimate, and quite simply, they were the best.

I walked into the glass skyscraper in Manhattan, feeling small against the scale of the city.

The lobby was sleek, modern, and intimidating.

I was waiting for the elevator when a man walked up beside me.

He was tall. Taller even than Dante.

He wore a navy suit that fit his broad frame with bespoke precision. He had dark hair, worn slightly long, and eyes the color of amber whiskey.

He wasn't looking at his phone. He was looking at me.

"Going up?" he asked.

His voice was deep, a rougher grit compared to Dante's velvet tone.

"Yes," I said, my grip tightening on my portfolio.

He reached out and pressed the button for the top floor. The executive suite.

I pressed the button for the 20th. HR.

He glanced at the button, then back at me, his gaze calculating.

"Interview?"

"Yes."

"Good luck," he said, though it sounded less like a wish and more like a prediction.

The doors slid open on the 20th floor.

I stepped out.

"Thank you," I said.

He held the door open for a second too long, his gaze lingering on my face as if memorizing it.

I walked into the HR office, my heart hammering a strange rhythm.

The interview went well. I let my work speak for itself-my designs, the numbers from the International Branch.

The HR director looked impressed.

"Wait here," she said, standing up. "I need to show this to the CEO. He's taking a personal interest in the new design team."

She left the room.

Ten minutes later, the door opened again.

It wasn't the HR director.

It was the man from the elevator.

He walked in with a predator's grace and sat on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So," he began, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "You're the one who walked away from the Chicago Underboss."

I froze.

"You know who I am?"

"I make it my business to know everything, Sienna Vitiello."

He extended a hand.

"I'm Enzo Falcone."

The Don of the New York Mafia.

I hesitated.

I had just escaped one cage. Was I walking straight into another?

He seemed to read the conflict in my eyes.

"I'm not looking for a wife, Sienna," he said, his voice dropping to a serious, steady register. "I'm looking for an architect. And rumor has it, you're the best."

I looked at his hand.

It was large, calloused. A dangerous hand.

But he was offering it, not grabbing me.

I took it.

"When do I start?" I asked.

Enzo smiled. It transformed his face from lethal to devastatingly handsome.

"Right now."