Page 31 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

I lead Sienna down the grand staircase.

"Hungry?" I ask, watching her face carefully.

The bruise from Jackson's hand still marks her cheek, and a muscle in my jaw tightens at the sight.

The memory of his body bleeding out on the warehouse floor last night should bring satisfaction, but it doesn't. Nothing will erase what he did to her.

I haven't told her that I left while she was sleeping. I will tell her. But not now.

"Actually, yes." A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth. It's tentative but real, and something in my chest expands at the sight.

The kitchen is filled with morning light streaming through the windows. Ettore looks up from the stove as we enter, his weathered face betraying nothing as he notices Sienna's hand in mine.

"Buongiorno," he says with a slight nod. "Coffee is ready."

"Grazie, Ettore." I guide Sienna to the marble island, pulling out a stool for her. "What are you in the mood for? Ettore makes the best omelets this side of the Atlantic."

Sienna hesitates. "Just toast is fine."

"Piccola mia," I say, the endearment slipping out without thought, "you need more than toast. Something substantial."

Ettore busies himself at the stove, pretending not to listen, but I catch the minuscule lift of his eyebrow at my use of the endearment. I ignore him.

"Pancakes?" she suggests quietly.

"Pancakes it is." I run a thumb across her knuckles before releasing her hand.

While Ettore prepares breakfast, I pour us each a cup of coffee, adding cream and sugar to hers. The domestic simplicity of the moment strikes me as surreal – Enzo Feretti, the feared capo of the Feretti family, making coffee for a woman in his kitchen.

"I have some work to handle this morning," I tell her, placing the mug in front of her. "Papers to sign, calls to return. Nothing that will take me out of the house."

Her eyes flick up to mine. "Is it about my father?"

I consider lying to protect her, but she deserves the truth. "Some of it, yes. Damiano has been handling most of the business while I was with you at the cabin."

Ettore places a stack of pancakes in front of Sienna, expertly topped with fresh berries and a light dusting of powdered sugar. For me, he delivers a spinach and feta omelet .

"Thank you," Sienna tells him with a small smile that makes the old man's stern face soften marginally.

"Prego, signorina." He returns to his cooking station, giving us space.

I watch as she takes her first bite, a look of pleasure crossing her face. Something primitive and satisfied unfurls in my chest at the sight of her enjoying food at my table.

I watch Sienna enjoying her pancakes, remembering how different our morning had been just hours ago. The way her body fit against mine, her skin against my sheets.

Lucrezia's voice breaks through my thoughts.

"Good morning," she says, sliding into the kitchen with unexpected lightness in her step. She's wearing a paint-splattered t-shirt over leggings, her hair pulled back in a messy bun – the closest to her old self I've seen in months.

"Coffee?" I ask, already reaching for a mug.

"God, yes." She accepts it gratefully, taking a long sip before turning her attention to Sienna. "How are you feeling? That bruise looks painful."

Sienna's hand instinctively goes to her face where Jackson's handprint still marks her skin. "It's not so bad."

Lucrezia studies her for a moment before shifting her gaze to me. "And how's that knife wound, big brother? Still playing the tough guy?"

"It's fine," I mutter, unconsciously touching my side where Dr. Romano had patched me up. "Barely a scratch."

"Men," Lucrezia rolls her eyes at Sienna, earning a small smile in response. "They could be missing a limb and still say it's just a flesh wound."

Something in Lucrezia's demeanor catches my attention – there's a spark in her eyes that's been missing since the night with Byron's men. She rocks slightly on her heels, energy practically radiating from her .

"I'm going to paint today," she announces, and I nearly drop my coffee mug. "First time in... well, you know."

I do know. Three months, two weeks, and four days since she last touched a brush.

"That's great, Luci," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral despite the surge of hope in my chest.

Lucrezia turns to Sienna. "Want to join me? I have supplies you can use, or you can just keep me company. My studio has the best light in the house."

Sienna looks startled by the invitation, glancing at me as if seeking permission. Something about that hesitance makes my jaw clench. She shouldn't need anyone's permission for anything, ever again.

"Go," I encourage her. "If you want to."

"I'd like that," Sienna says to Lucrezia, her voice quiet but genuine. "I haven't done much art myself, but I'd love to watch."

Lucrezia's face lights up. "Perfect. We'll make a day of it."

I watch them make plans, something unfamiliar warming my chest. It takes me a moment to recognize it as happiness – not my own, but happiness for them. For Lucrezia finding her way back to her art. For Sienna experiencing something normal and peaceful.

"I should get to Damiano's office," I say, finishing my coffee. "He's waiting for me."

I stand, hesitating for a moment before leaning down to kiss Sienna's forehead. She tilts her face up at the last second, and our lips meet briefly. It's chaste, barely a touch, but I feel Lucrezia's eyes on us immediately.

"Well, well," she drawls, a smirk playing on her lips. "Things have certainly developed since the cabin."

Heat rises in Sienna's cheeks, but she doesn't pull away .

"Mind your business, piccola peste," I tell Lucrezia, though there's no heat in my voice.

"That's not how siblings work, Enzo," Lucrezia counters. "Embarrassing you is literally in my job description."

I pull Sienna into a quick hug, pressing my lips to her ear. "Ignore my sister. She thinks she's funny."

"I heard that," Lucrezia says. "And I am funny. Sienna will back me up once she gets to know me better."

Sienna laughs – actually laughs – and the sound is like sunshine breaking through clouds. It's small and slightly rusty from disuse, but genuine. Lucrezia looks as surprised as I feel, before her expression shifts to something like triumph.

"Go handle your business, brother," she says, shooing me away. "We have important artistic matters to discuss."

I squeeze Sienna's shoulder gently before stepping back. "I'll see you both later."

T he art room smells of oil paints and turpentine, a rich, earthy scent that feels strangely comforting as Lucrezia leads me through the doorway. Light floods in from tall windows that stretch almost from floor to ceiling, bathing the space in natural brightness.

"This is where I used to..." Lucrezia hesitates, her voice catching slightly. "Where I paint. Or used to paint, anyway. "

The space is beautiful but shows signs of neglect—dust coating surfaces and half-finished canvases turned to face the walls. I watch as Lucrezia's fingers twist nervously in the fabric of her oversized sweater.

"Three months is a long time to stay away from something you love," I say quietly.

Her eyes meet mine, and I see recognition there—the understanding between two people who've been broken in similar ways. She doesn't ask how I know about her trauma.

"Sometimes it's easier to stay away than face what might come out on the canvas," she says, moving to a cabinet and pulling out fresh supplies. "But maybe today's different."

She sets up two easels side by side near the windows, assembling paints and brushes with practiced hands despite her absence from this room.

"I don't know how to paint," I admit, staring at the blank canvas. "I take photographs."

"There aren't any rules here," Lucrezia says, handing me a palette with dollops of vibrant colors. "Just make marks. See what happens."

I hesitate, brush hovering over the canvas. What would I even paint? Every time I try to think of something beautiful, my mind fills with ugly memories instead.

"I can't?—"

"Stop thinking," Lucrezia interrupts gently. "That's what keeps us stuck. Just feel something, anything, and let your hand follow."

I dip my brush into deep blue and make a single stroke across the white canvas. It feels both terrifying and freeing, like jumping from a great height.

T he hours slip away. Lucrezia works silently beside me, lost in her own world as I sink into mine. Something shifts as I continue painting. The brush becomes an extension of my hand, the colors no longer just pigments but emotions taking tangible form.

Anger comes first—dark reds and blacks slashing across the canvas. Then fear—murky greens and grays swirling in the corners. I paint without conscious thought, letting years of suppressed feelings guide each stroke.

"This is what was inside me all along," I whisper to myself.

But then something unexpected happens. Without planning it, I find my brush creating small points of light breaking through the darkness—bright yellow and white specks that remind me of stars. Of possibilities. Of Enzo's kitchen at three in the morning.

I lose track of time, lost in the rhythm of creation. My breathing syncs with each brushstroke, my body relaxed for the first time in days. No one is watching me, judging me, using me. This moment is entirely mine.

When I finally step back, I gasp softly at what I've created. It's chaotic and raw, technically unskilled but emotionally honest—a journey from darkness into tentative light. My whole story is there on canvas, not in images but in feeling.

"It's perfect," Lucrezia says quietly beside me, her eyes understanding as they move between my painting and me. "Not because it's technically good, but because it's true."

I touch the still-wet paint with my fingertip, feeling the texture. "I didn't know I could make something like this."