Page 17 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

H er confession hangs in the air between us, heavy and raw.

I'm coiled tight with rage, my knuckles white around my coffee mug as images flash through my mind – men touching her, hurting her, marking her perfect skin while that bastard Sterling knew.

The urge to find them all and make them suffer rises in me like a dark tide.

I study her across the room – shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, fingers twisting nervously in her lap. Even with the clothes hanging loose on her frame, I can map the locations of her scars beneath the fabric.

Blood roars in my ears as I imagine finding the men responsible. I'd take my time with them. Make them understand true pain. The warehouse where Damiano and I dealt with Lucrezia's attackers has space for more.

But this isn't about what I want. This is about her.

Silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but necessary. I let her have the space she needs, though every instinct screams to cross the room and pull her against me. To promise her that no one will ever hurt her again. That I'll stand between her and any threat.

The morning sun catches the tears still clinging to her lashes. She looks impossibly young, impossibly fragile, yet I know the strength it took to survive what she's endured. To run. To fight.

Mine, something primal in me whispers. Mine to protect. Mine to avenge.

I shove the thought away. She belongs to no one, least of all a man with hands as bloody as mine.

"Enzo." Her voice breaks the silence, soft but steady.

I look up, meeting those blue eyes that first caught my attention at the bar.

"Thank you." She takes a breath, her chest rising and falling. "For saving me that night."

It's the first time she's thanked me. The first time I see genuine gratitude in her eyes instead of suspicion.

"Thank you for bringing me here," she continues, voice growing stronger. "For not taking me to a hospital where he would have found me. For..." she swallows, "for not looking at me differently after seeing what they did."

Something cracks in my chest. I set down my coffee, trying to find words that won't sound hollow.

"I've seen worse," I finally say, then immediately regret it when her face falls. Cazzo. I'm not good at this shit.

"Fuck, that didn't come out right. What I mean is," I try again, "your scars don't change who you are, Sienna. They show what you survived."

She studies me, really looks at me for perhaps the first time. "Most men would run from damaged goods."

What the fuck?

"You're not damaged goods," I reply, my voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my enemies tremble. "You're a fucking survivor."

Her eyes widen slightly at my tone.

I stare at her, seeing the weight of memories etched into the shadows beneath her eyes. Something shifts inside me – a need to lighten what's hanging between us, to give her a moment's respite from the darkness.

"We don't have to keep talking about this right now," I say, setting my mug down. "Not if you don't want to."

Relief flashes across her face, her shoulders dropping slightly.

"Since we're stuck here for a while," I continue, leaning back against the couch, "is there anything you'd like to do? Watch a movie? Anything?"

She looks momentarily lost, like no one's ever asked for her preference before. It makes something cold settle in my gut.

"I don't know," she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "What do you usually do here?"

I glance around the cabin, thinking. "Sometimes I read. Work. But when Lucrezia visits, we play games."

Her eyebrows lift slightly. "Games?"

An idea forms, a way to maybe bring her out of herself for a while. "Yeah, board games, card games. You like games?"

Sienna's eyes drop to her hands. "I've never really played games. Not since I was little, anyway. "

"With your mom?" I ask gently.

She nods, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "She taught me Go Fish and Crazy Eights. And Candy Land – I used to love that one."

The image of a small Sienna playing colorful board games with her mother before everything went to hell touches that soft part of me that's well hidden in me.

"What about you?" she asks unexpectedly, glancing up.

"My mother taught us all the classics. Especially card games – she was ruthless at poker." The memory brings a genuine smile to my face. "Taught me everything I know about bluffing."

Sienna watches me curiously, as if seeing another layer beneath the monster.

"I've got cards," I offer, nodding toward the kitchen drawer. "And a few board games in the hall closet. Lucrezia makes sure we're stocked for when she visits." I pause, studying her. "What do you say? Want to play something?"

"You're really strange, you know that?"

"Strange?" I repeat, arching an eyebrow.

Sienna shifts on the couch, pulling her knees to her chest. "A mafia guy who cooks carbonara at three in the morning and wants to play board games." She shakes her head slightly.

A laugh escapes me. The sound seems to surprise us both.

"What did you expect?" I ask, genuinely curious what she thinks of me.

Her eyes drift over my tattoos, lingering on the Latin script across my knuckles. "I don't know. Someone who talks about killing people over breakfast? Practicing knife-throwing in the living room?"

"Who says I don't do that too?" I counter, watching the way her eyes widen slightly. "Tuesday afternoons are exclusively for knife-throwing practice."

The faintest hint of a smile touches her lips before disappearing.

"Look," I say, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. "I haven't actually played a board game in years. Lucrezia likes to keep them here, but I usually just humor her."

Sienna studies me, her blue eyes more alert than I've seen them. "But you're willing to try again? For me?"

Heat rushes through me at her phrasing.

For her.

As if I've done anything else since finding her bleeding behind that fountain.

"I'm willing to try," I say simply.

She considers this, fingers absently tracing a pattern on the blanket beside her. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do all this?" Sienna gestures vaguely around us. "Cook for me, offer to play games, protect me."

I could give her the simple answer—that she was hurt on Feretti territory, that I have principles about women being harmed, which are true—but something in her gaze demands pure honesty.

"Because I know what it's like," I say quietly, "to have your world shattered and not know who to trust."

She just stares at me.

"So," I continue, clearing my throat, "what'll it be? Cards? Monopoly? Fair warning—I'm ruthless at Monopoly."

"Are you ruthless at everything?" she asks, and I'm not sure if she's teasing or genuinely wants to know.

I hold her gaze, the weight of my life's choices heavy between us. "Not everything. "

Sienna stares back for a long moment before looking away. "Cards, I think. Start simple."

I nod and stand, heading for the kitchen drawer where we keep a worn deck.

I watch as Enzo rummages through the lower cabinets in the living room, pushing aside leather-bound books and old magazines. His broad shoulders flex beneath his t-shirt as he stretches to reach the back corner.

"Here we go." He pulls out a stack of boxes triumphantly. "Monopoly, chess, checkers... and Uno." He holds up a worn deck in a faded box. "Ever played?"

I shake my head. "I don't think so." He gives me a glance saying that this is not possible, but he doesn't say it.

"Perfect. It's simple enough." Enzo settles across from me at the coffee table, shuffling the colorful cards with practiced ease.

His fingers move with surprising grace for hands I've seen crack knuckles before violence.

"The goal is to get rid of all your cards first. You match either the number or the color of the card on the pile. "

As he explains the rules—draw fours, skips, reverses, and wild cards—I find myself actually paying attention.

"And when you're down to your last card, you have to say 'Uno' or I can make you draw more cards." His eyes lock with mine, a playful challenge replacing the usual intensity. "Ready to lose, piccola?"

"We'll see about that," I say.

The first round starts slowly as I learn the mechanics, but by the second game, I'm dropping cards strategically, saving my special cards for when they'll hurt him most.

"Draw four," I say, placing down my third wild card in a row.

"Cazzo," he growls, snatching four cards from the pile. "Where did you learn to be this ruthless?"

"I'm a quick study." I bite back a smile.

By the fifth game, I've won three times, and Enzo's competitive side is fully awakened. He narrows his eyes when I make him draw again.

"You're hustling me," he accuses, studying his growing hand of cards. "Did you secretly play this before?"

I laugh—actually laugh—and the sound startles us both. "I promise I haven't."

"Then you're just naturally cruel," he says, but his lips twitch upward.

We play for what must be an hour. Each time I win, Enzo's reactions grow more dramatic—running his hand through his hair, tossing cards down with exaggerated force, making empty threats about hiding the deck.

When I beat him for the sixth consecutive time, he throws his remaining cards into the air.

"Impossibile! I've played this game for years! How are you doing this?"

I can't help it—I double over laughing.

"Your face," I gasp between fits of giggles. "You look so offended."

For a moment, Enzo just watches me laugh, something unreadable passing across his features before his own smile breaks through.

"I demand a rematch," he insists, gathering the scattered cards. "Different game."

As my laughter subsides, a strange hollow feeling replaces it. Sitting in a warm room, playing cards, laughing freely feels like something from another life. Something I might have had if things had been different. If my mother was there. If my father hadn't been a monster.

"What's wrong?" Enzo asks, his voice gone soft.

I look down at the colorful cards in my hands. "Nothing. I just can't remember the last time I played a game. Or laughed like that."

The admission hangs between us, more intimate somehow than showing him my scars.

Enzo gathers the cards, a mock scowl on his face as he slides them back into their worn box. "You know what? I think you're cheating somehow."

"How could I possibly cheat?" I ask, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.

"I don't know yet, but I'll figure it out." He taps his fingers against the coffee table, his expression shifting to something more calculating. "Let's play something you can't possibly rig in your favor."

I raise an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Truth or Dare." His voice drops lower, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. "Simple rules. I ask, you choose—truth or dare. Then we switch."

The lighthearted atmosphere suddenly feels heavier. Card games are safe, impersonal. But Truth or Dare?

"I don't know..." I hesitate, twisting the sleeve of my borrowed shirt between my fingers.

"Afraid you'll lose this one?" There's a challenge in his eyes, but also something else—a careful watchfulness, like he's measuring my reaction.

"I've never played," I admit.

"Perfect." He leans back, crossing his arms. "Then we start on equal footing."

I should say no. This is exactly the kind of game that could reveal too much, could strip away my remaining defenses. But after the heaviness of this morning—after sharing part of my broken past—there's something appealing about playing at normal, even if it's just pretending.

"Fine," I say, pulling my legs under me on the couch. "But you go first."

Enzo smiles—a real one, not the dangerous smirk I've seen him use at the casino. "Truth or dare, Sienna?"

My name in his mouth still feels strange, in a way I don't fully understand.

"Truth," I say automatically. Safer to control my words than my actions.

His eyes study me for a moment. "What's your favorite color?"

I blink, surprised by the simplicity. "That's it? That's your question?"

"We'll start easy," he says with a shrug. "Build some trust."

I consider lying out of habit, but there seems no point. "Blue. Dark blue, like the ocean at night."

Something flickers in his expression. "I knew red wasn't your color."

"My turn," I say quickly. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth."

I search for something harmless. "How many languages do you speak? "

"Four fluently—Italian, English, Spanish, and Russian. Some German and French, but not enough to be impressive." He tilts his head. "Your turn. Truth or dare?"

I hesitate longer this time. "Truth."

"Do you actually know how to play poker, or was that a lie earlier?"

I shake my head. "My mother tried to teach me once, but we never finished the lesson."

"Your turn," he says.

"Truth or dare?"

"Dare." His lips curve into that dangerous smile again.

I hadn't expected that, and I fumble for a moment. "I dare you to..." I look around the room for inspiration. "Stand on your hands for thirty seconds."

Enzo laughs, the sound rich and unexpected. "Really? That's your dare?"

"I told you I've never played before."

Without another word, he rises from the couch, walks to an open space in the living room, and effortlessly kicks himself up into a perfect handstand. His t-shirt slides down, revealing a slice of tanned stomach and more of the intricate tattoos that cover his torso.

I count to thirty as he holds the position, not even wobbling. When he flips back to his feet, he doesn't even look winded.

"Satisfied?" he asks, returning to his seat.

I nod, strangely fascinated by this playful side of a man I've only seen as dangerous.