Sienna POV
I knew he’d try to grab the papers. Bullies always did. So I ran.
As Lorenzo lunged forward to snatch the trust documents, I had already anticipated his move. He was big and slow. I was small and fast, and I wasn’t afraid to get scraped knees.
I bolted toward the inner courtyard as fast as my small legs could carry me, my lungs aching as I screamed at the top of my lungs for an audience with Don Salvatore.
The cobblestones were uneven and slick with morning dew.
My shoe slipped, and the impact of my knees on the hard stone sent a jarring shock up my legs, scraping the skin. I didn't stop. The sting was nothing compared to what would happen if I lost.
Lorenzo caught up to me instantly.
His large hand clamped down on my arm—a brutal pressure that felt as if it bruised the bone. His fingers were like iron bars.
The Mafia wives trailed behind us, their frantic voices urging Lorenzo to silence the brat before she brought the Don's wrath upon them all. They weren’t worried about me. They were just scared for themselves.
They sounded terrified of the noise I was making.
A raw desperation took hold of me. I turned my head and sank my teeth deep into Lorenzo's hand. The skin was salty and the fabric of his glove was rough, and I bit down with every bit of hate from my other life.
He cursed loudly, yanking his hand away and sending me tumbling backward onto the ground.
The trust documents scattered across the gray stone. For one terrible second, my heart stopped. They were everything.
The papers slid across the courtyard and were abruptly stopped by the polished, bespoke leather shoe of Don Salvatore.
I looked up.
The Dark Don stood atop the marble steps, attended by his Underboss and Consigliere. He wasn’t just a man. He was a shadow given form, a weight in the air that made it hard to breathe.
The air around him seemed to grow dense, heavy with an authority that suffocated.
His chilling voice echoed across the courtyard, demanding to know who dared assault a child on his grounds.
Lorenzo immediately straightened his posture, adopting the stance of a loyal, respectful Capo. He was a better actor than anyone on TV.
He dismissed the chaos with a smooth tone, explaining that his future stepdaughter was just throwing a tantrum over the wedding.
I scrambled up from the ground, a trickle of blood making its way down my scraped knees. I made sure the Don could see the blood.
I grabbed the torn marriage petition from the cobblestones and thrust it toward the Don, objecting to the Family-sanctioned union.
I then turned my fierce gaze to the mocking wives.
I asked them loudly if it was Syndicate tradition for a Made Man to move his pregnant mistress into the family estate the day before his wedding.
Don Salvatore's gaze, heavy and lethal, shifted slowly from me to Lorenzo, and the temperature in the courtyard seemed to drop.
He demanded an explanation for the estate arrangements.
Lorenzo smoothly lied, claiming Camilla was frail and only staying temporarily for protection.
The Don's expression did not shift. His gloved fingers drummed once against the silver head of his cane—a single, measured beat that echoed through the silent courtyard like the tick of a clock counting down. Every Capo in the Family knew what that sound meant. It was the sound of Don Salvatore filing away a discrepancy, cataloguing a debt. I’d won. I’d really won. The Don was listening to me, a child, and not to the lying Capo. Lorenzo's smooth lies had bought him minutes, not absolution. I had seen that look in my past life, always moments before someone's garden was painted red.
