Page 14 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

I walk from the kitchen through the hallway, my fingers brushing against the polished wood paneling.

The living room opens before me. A massive fireplace dominates one wall, cold and dark now, but I can imagine how it would transform the space when lit.

The furniture is expensive but worn in just the right places—a deep leather sofa with throw pillows, armchairs positioned for conversation, and a thick rug that feels like heaven under my bare feet.

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the darkness outside, and I catch my reflection—a ghost of myself staring back. I wrap my arms around my middle, suddenly cold despite the cabin's warmth.

Was he going to kiss me?

The question burns through me like wildfire. The memory of Enzo's calloused fingers brushing against mine under the running water, his dark eyes dropping to my lips, his body leaning toward mine before he jerked away—it all replays in vivid detail.

And the most terrifying part? For one breathless moment, I wanted him to.

I sink onto the sofa, pulling a cashmere throw blanket around my shoulders. The fabric smells faintly of cedar and something distinctly male—Enzo's scent.

This isn't right.

The sound of his deep voice travels from another room, too muffled to make out words but clear enough to remind me he's still here. Still the dangerous man who carries a gun, who caught me mid-escape, who has his own agenda I can't begin to understand.

I curl deeper into the blanket, torn between contradictory instincts.

Part of me screams to maintain distance, to never trust, to remember that desire makes you vulnerable.

Another part, buried so deep I barely recognize it, wonders what it might feel like to be touched by hands that aren't seeking to own or hurt me.

Don't be stupid, Sienna.

This cabin, this temporary safety—it's just that. Temporary. Whatever I think I saw in Enzo's eyes, whatever I think I felt when our hands touched, none of it matters. The moment he learns exactly what my father does to me, Enzo will make the smart choice and hand me over.

I rise from the sofa and move toward the bookshelves lining one wall, running my fingers along leather-bound spines. Classic literature, history books, even some photography collections. Another contradiction in this man I can't figure out .

I pull a leather-bound book from the shelf, attracted by its worn spine and the faded gold lettering that reads "The Great American Landscape." The weight of it feels substantial in my hands. I run my fingers over the textured cover, tracing the embossed title.

Photography books. I didn't expect to find these here.

I carefully open it to find stunning black and white photographs of desolate landscapes—empty prairies, abandoned farmhouses, lonely mountains. The images speak to something deep inside me, capturing the same isolation I try to photograph myself.

My eyes drift back to the shelves, scanning other titles. There's an entire section dedicated to photography—collections by Ansel Adams, Annie Leibovitz, Robert Frank, names I recognize and admire.

I slide the first book back and pull out another one—"Abandoned America"—my fingers trembling slightly. The photographs inside show forgotten places: shuttered factories with broken windows, empty asylum corridors, decaying theaters where the seats still wait for an audience that will never come.

These images feel like looking into a mirror. Empty spaces holding the memory of what used to be.

I continue browsing, discovering sections of classic literature alongside modern fiction. Dostoyevsky next to Stephen King. Shakespeare beside John Grisham. Another shelf holds history books, biographies, and philosophy texts.

My fingers pause on a collection of Italian poetry. I slide it partway out, curious, then hesitate and push it back.

Instead, I pull out a well-worn copy of "East of Eden." The pages are dog-eared, with small pencil notes in the margins. Someone has underlined passages and made small notations. I trace one of the markings with my fingertip, trying to decipher the small, precise handwriting.

I wonder about the human who would underline "We have only one story. All novels, all poetry, are built on the never-ending contest in ourselves of good and evil."

I find her in the living room, standing before the bookshelf, silhouetted against the warm glow of the reading lamp. She doesn't hear me approach—too absorbed in whatever book she's holding, her slender fingers tracing the spine.

My eyes trace the delicate line of her neck, the gentle slope of her shoulders, the subtle dip of her waist.

Cazzo.

I remain frozen, my gaze traveling over her. Her hair falls loose down her back. It looks soft, begging for fingers to run through it. My fingers.

Heat floods my system, blood rushing south so fast it makes me dizzy.

The primal part of my brain conjures vivid images before I can stop them—her body pressed against the bookshelf, my hands gripping her hips, her legs wrapped around my waist. The taste of her skin under my mouth, the sounds she'd make as I claimed every inch of her .

I drag a hand down my face, trying to regain control. She's not mine. She's a woman who's been treated like property. A survivor who needs protection, not another man looking at her like she's something to possess.

I force my gaze to the floor, trying to focus on the intricate pattern of the rug instead of the curve of her ass.

Not to fulfill the fantasies currently blazing through my mind.

I clear my throat to announce my presence, expecting her to startle.

She doesn't jump or turn. No reaction at all. She's completely lost in whatever book she's found, fingers tracing over something on the page with a reverence that makes my chest tighten.

Perfect opportunity.

I move silently across the room, my footsteps soundless against the thick rug. When I'm directly behind her, close enough to catch the scent of the soap she used, I lean in and whisper near her ear.

"Boo."

She gasps, the book tumbling from her hands as she spins around. Her back hits the bookshelf hard, eyes wide with terror. Her breath comes in sharp, short pants.

"Oh! Don't—don't do that!" Her voice quivers, one hand pressed against her chest.

The flash of genuine fear in her eyes makes me regret my childish impulse. I hold up my hands, palms out.

"Sorry," I say, stepping back to give her space. "Didn't mean to scare you."

Her eyes narrow slightly, not believing me.

"Okay, maybe I meant to startle you a little. Not... that." I gesture to her trembling hands.

Her gaze drops to the fallen book between us, and something in my chest freezes. The familiar worn leather binding, the faded gold lettering on the spine.

"East of Eden," she says, noticing my fixed stare. "I was just?—"

I reach down and snatch it up before she can touch it again. My fingers curl around the book possessively, protectively. The familiar weight of it in my hand sends a pulse of grief through me.

"This isn't for reading," I say, my voice sharper than intended.

She flinches slightly, confusion replacing the lingering fear in her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was special." Her voice is soft, cautious.

I run my thumb over the worn edge, feeling the ghost of another hand that once held it just as lovingly. The margins filled with my mother's elegant script, her thoughts and reactions to passages that moved her.

The last thing I have with her handwriting.

"It was my mother's," I say finally, the words scraping my throat raw.

Understanding dawns in her eyes. "Oh." She glances at the book, then back at my face. "I noticed the notes. Her handwriting is beautiful."

Was. Her handwriting was beautiful.

"You can..." I swallow hard, forcing the words past the knot in my throat. "You can read it. Just be careful with it."

I hold the book out, an offering I've never made to anyone else. Not even Lucrezia or Damiano have touched this book since she died.

Sienna doesn't reach for it. Instead, she shakes her head gently.

"No. It's private. I shouldn't have?— "

"Take it," I insist, pushing it toward her. "Just don't write in it. Don't dog-ear the pages."

Her fingers brush against mine as she accepts the book, sending an electric current up my arm. She cradles it like something precious, like she understands exactly what she's holding.

"I'll be careful with it," she promises.

I watch Sienna's face as she holds the book, her fingers tracing the edge with surprising gentleness.

"It seems I'm not the only one with parent issues," she says quietly, her eyes meeting mine.

"Yeah," I admit, leaning against the bookcase. "I guess we all have our ghosts."

She nods, looking down at the book again. "Your mother... is she?—?"

"Dead," I confirm, the word still bitter on my tongue even after all these years. "She and my father both."

Sienna's face softens with genuine sympathy.

We stand in silence for a moment.

She clears her throat. "I should go take a shower."

"There are towels in the cabinet under the sink." I say.

As she turns to go, a mischievous impulse overtakes me—anything to break the heaviness of the moment. "Need any company? I've been told my back-scrubbing skills are exceptional."

I expect her to flinch or retreat behind her walls. Instead, she pauses, looking back over her shoulder with something almost like amusement in her eyes.

"I think I can manage on my own," she says dryly. "But thank you for the generous offer."

Something that might be the ghost of a smile flickers across her face before she walks away, leaving me staring after her.