Page 32 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

"That's the thing about art," she says, turning to her own canvas where she's painted something abstract and wounded. "It knows things about us that we're still figuring out for ourselves."

I feel like there might be a version of me that exists beyond what my father made me into. A version that creates rather than endures.

A knock on the door startles me from my artistic trance. I jerk my brush away from the canvas, leaving a streak of blue where it shouldn't be. My body tenses automatically.

"Come in," Lucrezia calls, seemingly unconcerned.

The door swings open, and I feel my shoulders relax when I see it's Enzo. His eyes find mine immediately, as though magnetized.

"You're painting," he says, his gaze moving from me to Lucrezia and then my canvas.

I self-consciously step in front of my work. It feels too raw, too revealing to share, even with him. Especially with him.

"What time is it?" I ask, noticing the changed angle of sunlight through the windows.

"Almost noon," Enzo replies, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. "I've finished what I needed to handle."

I blink in surprise. "Noon? We've been in here for hours."

"Time passes quickly when you're creating," Lucrezia says, setting her brush down. Her canvas shows more progress than I'd realized. Unlike mine, hers has structure. A darkness being pushed back by something undefined but powerful. "I'd forgotten that feeling."

Her voice holds a mixture of wonder and sadness, and I understand completely. To lose yourself in something that isn't pain. It's a gift I'd forgotten existed.

Enzo steps into the room, his eyes moving between our canvases. "I didn't want to interrupt, but Damiano's called a family dinner tonight. Everyone will be there."

"Everyone?" I echo, anxiety immediately climbing up my throat. More people means more variables, more potential threats.

"Family," Enzo clarifies, his voice softening as he notices my tension. "You'll be safe. It's just dinner."

Just dinner. As if anything in my life could be that simple anymore.

"Will there be pasta?" Lucrezia asks, her tone deliberately light as she begins cleaning her brushes. "Because Ettore's carbonara is worth dressing up for."

Enzo smiles at his sister, and I see the deep affection between them. "I believe he mentioned something about his lasagna recipe."

"Even better," Lucrezia says with a smile that almost reaches her eyes. She looks at me. "You'll love it. Ettore guards that recipe like it's nuclear launch codes."

I nod, attempting to match their casual tone while my mind races through what this dinner means. It's another step into their world, into whatever this temporary sanctuary is. Another opportunity to forget, just for a moment.

Enzo's eyes haven't left me. "You have paint," he says, stepping closer and gesturing to my face.

I freeze as his thumb brushes my cheek, warm and gentle. Blue paint transfers from my skin to his finger.

"There," he says. Our eyes lock, and for a moment, the room seems to shrink around us.

Lucrezia clears her throat. "I should shower before dinner. Paint in my hair is not the look I'm going for tonight."

But neither of us move as she slips out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

I stand in front of the mirror, smoothing down the simple navy blue dress Zoe lent me.

It's casual but pretty. A soft cotton material that falls just above my knees with short sleeves and a modest neckline.

My reflection shows someone I barely recognize: cheeks with a hint of color, eyes less haunted than they were days ago.

"You look beautiful," Enzo says from the doorway. He's changed into dark jeans and a crisp button-down shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. The sight of him makes my heart skip.

"It's just something Zoe gave me," I say, suddenly self-conscious. "Is it appropriate for dinner?"

Enzo crosses the room and stands behind me, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "Perfect," he murmurs, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders. The warmth of his touch sends tingles down my spine.

We make our way downstairs together, his hand at the small of my back. The gesture feels protective rather than possessive—a distinction I'm still getting used to.

When we enter the dining room, everyone else has already gathered. Damiano and Alessio are deep in conversation while Zoe arranges something on the table. But it's Lucrezia who catches my attention immediately.

She's wearing a stunning emerald green cocktail dress with a plunging neckline, her dark hair swept up in an elegant style. Diamonds glitter at her ears and throat. She looks like she's about to attend a red carpet event, not a family dinner.

I freeze in the doorway, suddenly feeling underdressed and out of place. "Maybe I should change," I whisper to Enzo. "I didn't realize this was formal. "

Lucrezia spots us and glides over, the skirt of her dress swishing dramatically. "You look lovely," she says, kissing my cheek.

"I feel underdressed compared to you," I admit, gesturing at her outfit. "Maybe I should have worn something more formal."

Zoe overhears and laughs, joining us. "Don't worry about it. We don't have a dress code here."

Lucrezia tosses her hair back with a dramatic sigh. "I never get to go anywhere special these days, so I wear my dresses whenever I can." She twirls, making the fabric flare out. "Even if we're just jogging in the garden, I'll wear sequins if I feel like it."

"It's true," Zoe confirms with an eye roll. "Last week she wore a cocktail dress to water the plants."

"Life's too short for boring clothes," Lucrezia declares, linking her arm through mine. "But your dress is perfect. Simple and elegant."

Her easy acceptance makes the tension in my shoulders release.

I take my seat at the dinner table, still feeling a bit nervous despite Lucrezia's reassurance.

The Feretti dining room is beautiful—all dark wood and crystal glasses that catch the light from the chandelier overhead.

Ettore has outdone himself again, serving plates of what looks like homemade ravioli with a fragrant sauce that makes my mouth water.

I glance around at the faces surrounding me. I've spent time with Enzo and Lucrezia and Zoe but I've barely exchanged more than a few words with Damiano or Alessio. They're still strangers to me, powerful men in a dangerous world.

Damiano sits at the head of the table, his posture perfect, shoulders broad in his tailored shirt.

His face carries the same hard edges as Enzo's—a man clearly accustomed to giving orders and having them followed without question.

But then Zoe leans over to whisper something in his ear, and his entire expression transforms. The stern lines soften, his eyes crinkle at the corners, and a gentle smile replaces his serious expression.

So that's what love looks like, I think to myself. The way he gazes at her makes something twist in my chest—a mix of wonder and longing.

"How are you finding your stay with us, Sienna?" Damiano asks, his attention shifting to me.

I straighten in my chair. "Everyone has been very kind," I say carefully. "Especially considering the circumstances."

"The Ferettis protect their own," he replies simply, as if I somehow belong in that category now.

Alessio reaches for his wine glass. "We're not all scary mafia men all the time," he says with a wink. "Though Enzo tries his hardest to maintain the image."

"Speaking of images," Enzo interrupts, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Should we tell Sienna about the charity gala last year? When you tried to impress that redhead by claiming you could speak fluent French?"

Alessio groans dramatically. "I thought we agreed never to mention that again."

"He spent the entire evening avoiding her after she turned out to be from Paris," Enzo continues, grinning at me. "She cornered him by the dessert table and asked him a question in French. His response was to stuff an entire éclair in his mouth and pretend to choke."

A laugh bubbles up from my chest. I cover my mouth, but it's too late .

"See what I have to deal with?" Alessio gestures toward Enzo. "No respect."

"The lady asked for your number while you were still coughing up pastry cream," Damiano adds, joining in the teasing.

I laugh again, feeling something tight inside me loosen just a little more.

"We're happy to have you join us for dinner, Sienna," Damiano says, his intense gaze softening as he looks at me. "It's good to see new faces at our table."

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. I've spent years analyzing men's expressions, searching for hidden meanings and threats beneath their words. But Damiano's statement seems genuinely welcoming.

"Thank you," I reply, my voice quieter than I intended. I clear my throat and try again. "I appreciate being included."

Damiano nods, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. He looks so much like Enzo when he does that—the same strong jawline, the same confident posture. But where Enzo burns hot, Damiano seems to simmer with a cooler, more controlled intensity.

"Besides," Alessio chimes in, raising his wine glass with a mischievous glint in his eye, "Damiano doesn't want you to hate us since you're apparently the only woman who can stand being around Enzo for more than five minutes without wanting to stab him."

"Vaffanculo, stronzo," Enzo mutters under his breath, shooting Alessio a dark look that would make most men flinch. Alessio just grins wider.

I don't need to understand Italian to recognize a curse when I hear one. The corner of my mouth twitches upward as I glance between them.

"Don't mind them," Zoe says, leaning toward me conspiratorially. "They've been like this since I met them. It's how they show affection."

"It's true," Lucrezia agrees, twirling pasta around her fork. "If Enzo doesn't insult you at least once a day, it means he doesn't like you."

Enzo rolls his eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile he tries to hide by taking a sip of his wine. His hand finds mine under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze.

The gesture is small, private—just for me—and it makes my heart flutter in my chest. I squeeze back, marveling at how natural it feels to sit here among these people who were strangers just days ago.

The laughter around the table feels foreign but wonderful, like discovering a language I'd forgotten I could speak. For a brief moment, I almost believe I could belong here, in this strange family bound not just by blood but by choice.

Ettore appears with a platter of tiramisu just as Alessio is recounting another embarrassing story about Enzo. The rich scent of coffee and cocoa wafts across the table, making my mouth water.

"This looks amazing," I say as Ettore places a portion in front of me.

"My nonna's recipe," he says with a wink. "The secret is?—"

A shrill, piercing alarm cuts through the room, drowning out his words.

The transformation is instantaneous. The warm, relaxed atmosphere evaporates like morning mist. Damiano, Alessio, and Enzo are on their feet before I can even process what's happening, guns appearing in their hands as if conjured from thin air.

"Perimeter breach, east side," Damiano states, his voice cold and precise. All trace of the man who smiled at Zoe moments ago has vanished, replaced by someone dangerous and deadly.

Enzo moves to my side, his face hard as granite. "Take Sienna and Zoe to the safe room," he commands Lucrezia. "Now."

Zoe is already at the door, calm but moving with purpose. Lucrezia grabs my arm, tugging me forward. "Come on," she urges, her eyes wide but determined.

I follow them into the hallway, heart hammering against my ribs. Behind us, I hear Damiano giving rapid orders, voices taut with tension.

"The basement entrance is this way," Lucrezia explains, leading us toward a door near the kitchen. "The safe room can withstand?—"

A deafening explosion rocks the house, the force of it sending us staggering against the wall. Plaster rains down from the ceiling. Somewhere, glass shatters.

"They're inside," Zoe whispers, her face pale but composed.

My blood runs cold as realization crashes over me. I know exactly who "they" are.

Henry. My father. Coming for his property.

And these people—these strangers who've shown me more kindness in days than I've known in years—are going to die because of me.

"This is my fault," I whisper, the words tasting like ash. "My father won't stop until he gets what he wants. He never does."

Lucrezia's hand tightens around mine. "Come on," she repeats, more urgently. "We need to get to safety."

But my feet won't move. I can hear shouting now, the unmistakable pop of gunfire from somewhere in the house. How many men did my father bring? How many people are going to die today because they tried to help me?

"No," I say, pulling my hand free from Lucrezia's grip. "I can't let you all die for me."

"Sienna, don't be stupid," Zoe hisses, reaching for me. "Damiano and Enzo know what they're doing."

But I shake my head, stepping back. This isn't right. These people barely know me. I'm not worth dying for—I'm not worth Enzo dying for. The thought of him bleeding out because of me makes my stomach twist into knots.

"This is about me," I say, my voice steadier now as determination takes root. "My father won't hurt you if he gets what he wants."

I glance around wildly, trying to formulate a plan.

"I have to turn myself in," I whisper, more to myself than to them. "It's the only way to stop this."

I have to act. Now.