Page 53 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

I wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and Enzo's warm body wrapped around mine. His chest rises and falls against my back in the steady rhythm of sleep.

Enzo stirs behind me, his stubble scratching my shoulder as he presses a kiss to my skin.

"Morning, piccola," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

I turn in his arms to face him. "Morning."

His dark eyes, still heavy-lidded, roam over my face. He brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, his touch impossibly gentle for hands that have done such violence.

He stretches, muscles rippling beneath his tattooed skin. "We should get up soon. I have something planned for us today."

I prop myself on one elbow. "Before we go to your family's for dinner?"

"Yes." Enzo kisses my forehead before sliding out of bed. "Wear something comfortable. We'll be in the car for a bit."

I follow him to the bathroom. "Where are we going?"

He turns on the shower, steam quickly filling the glass enclosure. "It's a surprise."

I narrow my eyes. "You never do surprises."

It's true. Enzo always tells me exactly where we're going, what to expect. After everything with my father, he understands my need for information, for control.

A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "First time for everything."

After showering and dressing in jeans and a soft blue sweater, I follow Enzo to the garage. He opens the passenger door of his Audi, rather than the Lamborghini.

"Practical car today?" I tease, sliding into the leather seat.

"Practical drive," is all he says.

We leave the city, traffic thinning as Enzo navigates onto a highway heading north. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh. The familiar weight is comforting.

About forty minutes into the drive, I recognize where we are.

"Enzo." I sit up straighter. "This is the way to my father's house."

Tension creeps into my shoulders. I haven't been back since that day six months ago.

Enzo's hand squeezes my thigh gently. "Not exactly. But close. "

"Why are we here?" My voice sounds small, even to my own ears.

He glances at me, his expression softening. "Trust me?"

I nod, though anxiety still flutters in my chest.

Enzo takes an exit I haven't seen in years, turning down a familiar street lined with old maple trees. My heart starts to pound as I recognize more landmarks. The corner where Mom and I would feed ducks in spring.

"Enzo, what are we?—"

He pulls the car to a stop in front of a small storefront with a faded blue awning. My words die in my throat as I stare at the hand-painted sign: "Francesca's Bakery."

Every Sunday morning for years, my mother took me here. This tiny Italian bakery tucked away on a quiet street, far enough from my father's house that we felt free for those precious hours.

"How did you..." I whisper, unable to finish the thought as memories wash over me.

Enzo takes my hand. "You told me about it. You said the owner would save almond cookies for you."

Tears blur my vision. I mentioned it once, months ago, in passing. And he remembered.

"Is it still...?" I can't form complete sentences.

"Let's find out," Enzo says gently.

The bell above the door chimes as we enter.

The scent hits me immediately – butter, sugar, and almond extract.

It smells exactly the same, like stepping back in time.

The glass display cases, the small round tables with their blue and white checkered cloths, the vintage espresso machine behind the counter.

An elderly woman emerges from the back room, wiping flour-covered hands on her apron. Her silver hair is pulled back in a neat bun, deep lines etched around her eyes and mouth. She's older now, more stooped, but unmistakably the same woman who would greet us with a warm smile every Sunday.

"Ah! Mr. Feretti!" she calls out, her voice accented but strong.

To my surprise, Enzo steps forward and embraces her like family, kissing her cheeks. "Francesca. Thank you for doing this."

She pats his face affectionately.

Her gaze shifts to me, and I see the moment recognition dawns in her eyes. She gasps, one hand covering her mouth.

"Santa Maria... is this my little Sienna?" She moves closer, studying my face. "Those eyes. I would know those eyes anywhere."

I can't speak. Can't move. Can barely breathe.

"Enzo here, he came to me last month," Francesca says, reaching for my hands. "He talked about the beautiful little girl and her mother who stopped coming for Sunday cookies." Her eyes glisten with tears.

A sob escapes me. "I—I didn't think you'd remember us."

"Remember?" She clicks her tongue. "For three years, every Sunday, you sat at that table by the window. Your mother would have cappuccino, you would have hot chocolate. And always, always the almond cookies."

She squeezes my hands before turning toward the counter. "Wait, wait."

Francesca disappears into the back room, returning moments later with a white bakery box tied with blue string.

"For you," she says, pressing it into my hands. "Made fresh this morning. "

With trembling fingers, I untie the string and lift the lid. The aroma that rises makes my knees weak – sweet almond paste, butter, powdered sugar. Exactly as I remember.

I close my eyes, and suddenly I'm nine years old again, sitting across from my mother, crumbs on my chin, laughter in the air, not a care in the world beyond the sweetness melting on my tongue.

"Thank you," I whisper, not sure if I'm speaking to Francesca or Enzo or both.

W e return to the car in silence, Sienna cradling the bakery box in her lap like it contains something infinitely precious. Her knuckles are white where she grips the edges, her breathing uneven.

I start the engine but don't pull away immediately. Instead, I watch her profile as she stares out the windshield, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.

"I thought you might want to sit inside," I say quietly. "Have a cookie at your old table."

She shakes her head, fingers tracing the blue string. "I couldn't. Not yet." Her voice breaks. "It's too much, Enzo. All at once."

I reach across the console and take her hand, gently prying it from the box. "I understand, piccola. "

And I do. Some memories are too raw, too sacred to revisit fully. Sometimes you need to approach them in pieces, like a wild animal you're trying not to startle.

We drive in silence for several minutes, her hand in mine, the box balanced carefully on her thighs. The scent of almond and sugar fills the car, mixing with the salt of her tears.

"How did you find her?" Sienna finally asks.

"It wasn't difficult." I keep my eyes on the road, giving her space to process. "You mentioned it was near your father's house. The rest was just details."

What I don't tell her is how I spent weeks tracking down every bakery within a ten-mile radius of Sterling's mansion.

How I visited each one personally, describing a woman and her daughter who might have been regulars years ago.

How I refused to delegate this task to anyone else, because it mattered too much.

Sienna deserves this. Deserves every good memory salvaged from the wreckage of her childhood. Deserves the world handed to her on a silver fucking platter after everything she's endured.

Not because I love her, though I do—with every cell in my body. But because she's inherently worthy. Because this world would be infinitely better if there were more Siennas in it. People who retain their kindness after cruelty, their softness after brutality.

Instead, this world is crawling with men like Henry Sterling. Men who view others as commodities, as tools, as means to an end. Men who see their own daughters as assets to be traded, their wives as obstacles to be eliminated.

I've killed my share of these men. Will kill more before I'm done. And still, they multiply like cockroaches in the dark corners of humanity.

"Thank you," Sienna whispers, pulling me from my thoughts. "For giving this back to me."

I lift her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "You never lost it, piccola. It was always there, waiting for you to come back."

She looks down at the box, then back at me. Her eyes—still wet with tears—hold something new now. Something that looks like peace.

"Can we stop somewhere?" she asks. "Before we go home? Somewhere quiet, maybe by water?"

I nod, already calculating routes in my head. "There's a park about ten minutes from here. Has a small lake."

"Perfect." She settles back in her seat, still holding the box, but her grip has relaxed. "I think I'm ready to try one now."