Page 7 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

I hear a knock on my door, gentle but persistent. When I open it, Lucrezia stands there, her eyes showing more life than I've seen in months. The conversation with Sienna must have drawn her out of herself, even temporarily.

"Come in," I say, stepping back to give her space.

She moves into my room, settling into the chair by the window where we've had countless conversations before.

"How did it go?" I ask, leaning against my desk.

"She's terrified, Enzo." Lucrezia looks up, her eyes dark with concern. "Not just scared—completely terrified. Of her father especially."

"What did she tell you?"

"Henry Sterling sells women." Lucrezia's voice hardens. " And from what she implied, he was planning to sell her too—to someone named Cortez."

The name registers immediately. Carlos Cortez, Mexican cartel connection. Not the man who took her from the bar. Known for his particularly brutal treatment of women. My jaw clenches, rage building like a thunderstorm.

"She referred to herself as her father's property," Lucrezia continues, disgust evident in her tone. "Like she's not even a person to him."

"Did she say anything about who beat her?"

Lucrezia shakes her head. "She shut down when I pushed too hard. But Enzo—" She leans forward, intent in her expression. "We need to be careful. We need to be sure before taking any action."

"Sure of what?" I ask, though I already suspect what she means.

"Sure of exactly what's happening. Who's involved. What she needs." Lucrezia's eyes meet mine, serious and focused. "We can't just assume we know what's best based on pieces of information. We need her to trust us enough to tell us everything."

She's right, and I hate it. Every instinct screams to hunt down Sterling and Cortez immediately, to eliminate the threat. But acting on partial information could make things worse for Sienna.

"You're right," I admit. "We need her to trust us first."

"She won't just open up because we demand answers," Lucrezia says softly. "Trust has to be earned, especially for someone who's been hurt like she has."

Lucrezia shifts in her chair, a hint of her old confidence returning. "I'm going to invite her to have breakfast with us tomorrow morning. "

"Breakfast?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Yes, Enzo. It's this meal people eat in the morning," she says with exaggerated patience. "Family breakfast might help her see we're not monsters. Besides, Ettore's making those pastries you like."

I consider this. A casual setting might lower Sienna's defenses where formal interrogation failed.

"You think she'll come?"

"I don't know," Lucrezia admits. "But it's worth trying. She needs to see that we're actual people, not just the scary Feretti brothers who run a criminal empire."

"I don't know how to get her to trust me. Every time I try, she looks at me like I'm going to hurt her."

"You're not exactly approachable," Lucrezia says, lips quirking. "Your default expression is 'I might kill someone today.'"

"That's because I might," I shoot back.

Her smile widens. "I'll handle getting her comfortable. Just try not to glower at her across the table."

"I don't glower."

"You absolutely glower." She stands, smoothing her skirt. "Trust my judgment on this, okay? You do the scary business stuff, I'll handle the human connection part."

I nod, knowing she's right. "I trust you, Luce. You've always been better with people anyway."

"Did the great Enzo Feretti just admit I'm better at something?" She presses a hand to her chest in mock shock. "I should record this moment for posterity."

"Get out of my room," I say, but there's no heat in it.

She walks to the door, pausing before she leaves. "She's suffered, Enzo. More than you realize. Be patient."

After she's gone, I find myself smiling. That's the sister I know—sharp, perceptive, and tough as hell under her artistic exterior. The trauma dimmed her fire but didn't extinguish it. That badass attitude is exactly what our family needs right now, though I'll never tell her that.

I 'm staring at the ceiling when a soft knock echoes through the room. My body tenses automatically.

"Sienna?" Lucrezia's voice filters through the wood. "Are you awake?"

I sit up, pulling the blanket around my shoulders like armor. "Yes."

The door opens, and Lucrezia steps in. Unlike yesterday, she's dressed in black jeans and a flowing top, her dark hair falling in waves over her shoulder. There's something about her that feels almost normal—like she exists in a different universe than the men who own this house.

"Good morning," she says, smiling. "I thought you might be hungry. We're having a family breakfast downstairs, and I wanted to invite you to join us."

My stomach clenches at the word "family"—a twisted concept in my experience. But it also growls loud enough for both of us to hear, betraying my need for food.

Lucrezia's smile widens. "After we eat, can I show you around the house? There's a beautiful garden, and my art studio if you're interested. "

I press my lips together, weighing her offer against the fear of encountering Enzo again. Part of me wants to refuse, to stay hidden in this room until I figure out my next move. But another part—the part that's been starved of normal human interaction for years—leans toward her warmth.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," I say, twisting the edge of the blanket between my fingers. "Your brother?—"

"Is intense, I know." Lucrezia sits at the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd me. "But he won't bite at breakfast, I promise. Besides, Ettore made Belgian waffles with fresh berries."

My stomach growls again, louder this time. When was the last time I had a real breakfast? Not the nutritionally balanced but joyless meals my father's staff prepared, but actual food meant to be enjoyed?

Lucrezia waits, patient and still. Unlike her brother, she doesn't press or demand. The silence between us feels almost comfortable.

"Okay," I finally say, the decision surprising even me.

Her face lights up. "Perfect! There are clothes in the closet that should fit you. Take your time—I'll wait in the hall."

When she leaves, I sit frozen for a moment, questioning my decision. Sharing a meal with the Ferettis means lowering my guard. It means giving them one more piece of me that they could use against me later.

But I'm so hungry. And tired of being alone with my fear.

I push myself off the bed and head toward the closet, hoping I'm not making a terrible mistake.

I rifle through the closet, finding a selection of clothes that look expensive but comfortable—jeans, soft sweaters, t-shirts. I choose dark jeans and a loose-fitting blue sweater that covers most of my bruises. The fabric feels gentle against my tender skin.

As I dress, my mind races with what awaits me downstairs. A family breakfast. The word "family" has never meant safety to me. In my experience, family means ownership, control, and pain carefully hidden behind closed doors.

I brush my hair with shaking hands, staring at my reflection. Who will be at this breakfast?

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I can do this. I've handled worse situations, survived worse men. I just need to stay alert, watch for opportunities, and never, ever trust completely.

When I step into the hallway, Lucrezia beams at me.

"That color suits you," she says, gesturing to the sweater.

We walk through the corridor, my eyes cataloging every turn, every door, every potential escape route. The mansion is massive, with high ceilings and artwork that probably costs more than most people make in a lifetime.

"Almost there," Lucrezia says, her voice bright with a casualness I can't comprehend.

The dining room appears ahead, voices filtering out. My steps falter. Lucrezia notices and slows her pace.

"It's okay," she whispers. "They don't bite. Well, Damiano might, but only if you steal his coffee."

I don't smile at her joke. Every muscle in my body tightens as we enter the room.

Four people sit around a large table covered with platters of food. They all look up as we enter, conversation stopping abruptly. I freeze in the doorway, feeling exposed under their collective gaze .

Lucrezia gently takes my hand. "Come sit by me," she says, tugging me toward an empty chair beside hers.

I follow stiffly, keeping my eyes down.

"Everyone, this is Sienna," Lucrezia announces. "Sienna, this is my family."

She points around the table. "My brother Damiano, his wife Zoe, our consigliere Alessio, and you've already met Enzo."

I hesitate, acutely aware of all eyes on me. My instinct is to disappear, to make myself as small and forgettable as possible. But I can't just stand here frozen.

"Good morning," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Morning, Sienna," Zoe says with a warm smile. She has kind eyes that don't match what I'd expect from a mafia wife. "How did you sleep?"

"Fine. Thank you," I answer automatically, the polite response drilled into me since childhood.

Damiano nods in acknowledgment, his eyes assessing but not cold.

Alessio, the one Lucrezia called their consigliere, offers a reserved smile. "Good to see you up and about."

Enzo says nothing, but his gaze feels heavy on my skin. When I dare to glance at him, his expression is unreadable, his attention fixed on me with an intensity that makes me want to run.

Lucrezia pulls out the chair beside her. "Sit. Before Ettore comes out and personally escorts you to the table."

Once seated, I watch in bewilderment as Lucrezia begins filling a plate for me. She places golden waffles drizzled with syrup and topped with fresh berries, adding a side of scrambled eggs.

"Orange juice or coffee?" she asks, already reaching for a crystal pitcher .

"Juice, please," I reply, fighting the urge to flinch when she moves her hand near me.

She pours the bright orange liquid into a glass and sets it before me. Then, just as naturally, she serves herself, chatting with Zoe about some show they both watch.

Around me, conversation resumes. Damiano discusses something about shipping routes with Alessio. Enzo joins in occasionally, his deep voice making me tense each time.

I stare at my plate, overwhelmed by this strange normalcy. My father never ate with me unless he was introducing me to "business associates." Meals were functional, not social.

No one has served me food since my mother left.

I take a small bite of waffle, the sweetness exploding on my tongue. It's so good I have to stop myself from wolfing it down, aware that eating too quickly might make me sick.

"The waffles are Ettore's specialty," Lucrezia says, noticing my reaction. "He'll be personally offended if you don't have seconds."

The simple act of someone caring what I eat, how I feel about the food—it creates a strange ache in my chest. I don't know what to do with this feeling, this glimpse of what normal might be like.