Page 8 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

I watch her from across the table, tracking every movement while pretending not to. Sienna keeps her gaze fixed on her plate, carefully cutting her waffle into precise squares she barely touches. She hasn't looked in my direction once since sitting down—not even a glance.

"The Martinez shipment arrived yesterday," Damiano says, his voice deliberately casual. "Everything accounted for."

I nod, playing along with this sanitized breakfast conversation. "Good. Any word from our friends in Chicago?"

"Nothing urgent." Damiano's eyes flick toward Sienna before returning to me. " Business as usual."

The tension in the room is palpable. Our family breakfasts are usually full of Zoe challenging Damiano and my dry observations. But today, with Sienna at the table, we're like actors in a poorly rehearsed play—all aware we're censoring ourselves for the stranger among us.

Sienna flinches when Alessio's fork clatters against his plate. I notice her fingers twisting the fabric of the napkin in her lap, a nervous habit I've already cataloged. She's afraid—of all of us, but especially of me.

The realization sits like lead in my stomach. I don't like it. Not one fucking bit.

I've spent years cultivating fear, wielding it like a weapon against enemies. But seeing this broken girl terrified of me makes me want to punch something. She should be afraid of the monsters who hurt her, not the man trying to protect her.

Zoe leans forward, her voice gentle. "Sienna, is there anything you need? Clothes or personal items we could get for you?"

Sienna's head snaps up, eyes wide like a cornered animal. "No, I—I'm fine. Thank you."

Her voice is barely above a whisper, but I catch the tremor in it.

"Are you sure?" Zoe presses. "It's no trouble."

"The clothes in the room are sufficient." Sienna's gaze drops back to her plate. "I don't need anything."

Don't need anything or don't want to ask for anything? I wonder which it is.

Damiano clears his throat. "We're planning to open another restaurant downtown next month. Something casual, family-style Italian."

I play along, but my attention remains fixed on Sienna.

She sits perfectly still, shoulders hunched slightly as if trying to make herself smaller. Every few minutes, her eyes dart toward the nearest exit before returning to her plate.

I shift strategies, deciding on a different approach with Sienna. Maybe if I soften my usual tone, she'll see I'm not the monster she believes.

"The, uh, waffles are good today. Ettore makes them from scratch." I force my voice to sound lighter, more conversational. The words feel strange in my mouth, like I'm speaking a language I barely know. "The secret is buttermilk. Makes them fluffy."

What the fuck am I doing talking about waffle recipes?

A choking sound draws my attention. Alessio is hiding behind his coffee mug, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. His eyes dance with amusement as he watches my pathetic attempt at small talk.

"Something funny, Alessio?" I growl.

He clears his throat, but the smirk remains. "Not at all. Please, continue telling us about the... buttermilk."

My jaw clenches. "Fuck off."

And just like that, my attempt at being approachable shatters. I've never been good at this gentle shit. Leave that to Lucrezia and Zoe.

"Language at breakfast," Damiano says, but his lips twitch upward.

"Oh please," Zoe rolls her eyes. "Like you don't curse when you burn your toast."

Lucrezia giggles. "Remember when he dropped that entire pot of sauce before the Marconi dinner? I learned three new Italian curse words."

The tension breaks as everyone laughs—everyone except Sienna. She doesn't join in, but her eyes move from person to person, studying us. The death grip on her napkin loosens slightly .

I catch her watching me, her blue eyes unreadable. She doesn't smile, but something in her posture shifts—the rigid line of her shoulders relaxes a fraction. It's barely noticeable, but to me, it's like watching ice begin to crack.

It's not trust. Not even close. But it's something.

I drop my gaze as the family's banter about Damiano's cursing dies down. The waffles on my plate sit mostly untouched, but I've managed a few bites—more than I expected when I first sat down.

"Well, I should get back to work," Damiano announces, standing from his chair. His presence fills the room even as he prepares to leave it. "Meetings all morning."

"I'll walk with you," Zoe says, her hand resting briefly on his arm in a gesture so casual yet intimate it makes me look away. "Sienna, it was lovely to meet you. I hope you'll be comfortable here."

I manage a small nod, my fingers twisting in the fabric of my borrowed pants. They leave together, their footsteps fading down the hallway.

Alessio drains his coffee cup and rises next. "I need to handle something downtown," he says, his eyes flicking between Enzo and me. Some unspoken message passes between the men before he nods at Lucrezia. "Later, kid. "

Lucrezia rolls her eyes at him but smiles, the easy affection between them so different from anything I've known.

The room feels both emptier and less suffocating as they depart.

I can feel Enzo watching me.

My gaze remains fixed on the half-eaten waffle, studying the pattern of the fork marks I've made. The weight of his attention presses against me, but I refuse to look up. I've learned that lesson all too well.

Eyes reveal too much—both mine and his. When people look at me, really look, they see things I don't want them to see.

Vulnerability. Fear. Weakness. And when I look at them, I see truth beneath their masks.

My father taught me early that meeting someone's gaze was dangerous, like offering your throat to a predator.

But something about Enzo's eyes makes my skin prickle with awareness.

I caught a glimpse when he found me in the garden—dark intensity focused entirely on me.

Not the way men usually look at me, assessing my value or use.

Something different. Something that makes me want to look back, to understand what I see there.

But I can't. If I look at him, really look, he might see through me too. Read the desperation and fear in my eyes. See the shameful secret of who I am and what I've done. What's been done to me.

So I keep my eyes down, counting the seconds until I can escape this quiet scrutiny, this gentle trap of breakfast and family and things that aren't mine to have.

The silence stretches between us like a taut wire. I can practically feel Enzo's eyes on me, studying every move, every breath. When he finally pushes back his chair, the scraping sound makes me flinch.

"I have work to do," he says, his voice low. "Lucrezia, you'll..." He doesn't finish the sentence, but something passes between them—some silent understanding.

"Of course," Lucrezia answers brightly.

Enzo lingers for a moment, and I sense him wanting to say something else. But he just exhales and leaves, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

I release the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"He makes you nervous," Lucrezia says. It's not a question.

I fiddle with my fork, dragging it through the pool of syrup on my plate. "Every man makes me nervous."

"Are you afraid of my brother?" she asks directly.

My throat tightens. "Yes," I whisper, unable to lie. "But not just him. I'm afraid of every man."

Lucrezia reaches for the coffee pot, refilling her cup before offering me some. I shake my head. She settles back, studying me with those intelligent eyes that seem too old for her young face.

"You know," she says carefully, "if Enzo wanted to hurt you, he would have already."

The blunt statement makes me look up.

"He found you bleeding and unconscious," she continues. "You were completely vulnerable. He could have done anything." She wraps her slender fingers around her mug. "But he didn't. He brought you here, called a doctor, gave you a safe place to recover."

I open my mouth to argue but close it again. She's right, of course.

"The men in this family—they're not saints. Far from it." A shadow crosses her face. "But they don't hurt innocent people, and they don't hurt women. That's a line none of them crosses. "

Something shifts in my chest—a painful loosening, like a knot being carefully undone.

"My father will find me," I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them. "He always finds what belongs to him."

The memory of his cold eyes makes my skin crawl. The thought of being dragged back, of facing his rage, of being handed over to Cortez—it steals my breath.

"You keep saying that," Lucrezia says gently. "That you belong to him. Like you're property."

I stare down at my hands. "That's what I am. What I've always been."

"Not here," she says, and the certainty in her voice makes me look up again. "Not with us."

I let Lucrezia's words sink in.

"Are you finished with breakfast?" Lucrezia asks, changing the subject. Her voice is light, as if we weren't just discussing my status as a human being versus property. "I could show you around the house if you'd like."

I glance at my half-eaten waffle and nod. "Yes, I'm done. Thank you."

"Great!" She stands with unexpected energy. "This place is huge, and it's easy to get lost. Might as well know where you're staying."

I follow her out of the dining room, my footsteps hesitant compared to her confident stride. The mansion unfolds around us like something from another world—my father's house was luxurious, but cold. This place, despite its grandeur, has touches of warmth I never expected.

"Living room, obviously," Lucrezia waves her hand as we pass through a space with plush couches and a massive fireplace. "Damiano's office is down that hall—off limits unless you want to risk getting shot. "

My eyes widen and she laughs. "I'm kidding. Mostly."

We continue through corridors lined with art that looks expensive enough to fund a small country.

Lucrezia points out the kitchen where Ettore, their chef, creates "absolute magic.

" She shows me the library filled floor-to-ceiling with books in multiple languages, an indoor pool, and several rooms whose purposes I can't quite determine.

"And this," Lucrezia says with a dramatic flourish, pushing open double doors, "is my domain."

Her bedroom is nothing like I imagined. While the rest of the house maintains a certain refined elegance, Lucrezia's room explodes with color and life. The space is massive—more suite than bedroom—with different areas flowing into one another.

"Come in," she urges when I hesitate at the threshold.

I step inside, immediately drawn to the wall covered in canvases. Each painting bursts with emotion—abstract explosions of color, haunting faces emerging from darkness, landscapes that seem to breathe.

"Did you paint all these?" I ask, unable to hide my amazement.

"Guilty," she says, flopping onto a couch draped with vibrant fabric.

I move deeper into the room, taking in the details.

A sitting area with mismatched furniture arranged around a low table covered in sketchbooks.

Floor-to-ceiling windows draped with gauzy fabric that softens the sunlight.

Against one wall stands an easel with an unfinished canvas, surrounded by paint-splattered drop cloths and containers of brushes.

"It's beautiful," I whisper, running my fingers over a carved wooden desk. "I've never seen a room like this. "

"It's my sanctuary," Lucrezia says, watching me explore. "The one place that's completely mine."