Sienna POV
The silence in the house stretched on for two weeks.
Yet, I maintained the routine.
I managed the staff, I organized the Don's medications, and I made sure Mia did her homework.
I was playing the part of the perfect wife of a hero on a secret mission.
Then, the fragile peace shattered. The stroke happened.
We were at dinner.
Don Carlo dropped his fork, the silver clattering loudly against the fine china.
His face went slack on one side, and like a marionette with its strings cut, he slumped forward into his plate of pasta.
"Carlo!" Nonna screamed.
I was moving before the scream even ended.
I called the private ambulance.
I cleared the airway.
I held Nonna back as the paramedics swarmed the dining room with chaotic efficiency.
At the private clinic, the doctors worked for hours.
Nonna Rosa sat in the waiting room, clutching her rosary until her knuckles turned white.
"Call Luca," she said, her voice trembling. "He needs to know."
"I tried," I said, keeping my voice steady. "His phone is off. Secure comms, remember?"
"Try again!" she snapped.
I dialed the number.
It went straight to voicemail.
Of course it did.
The burner phone was probably in a trash can at JFK airport by now.
Nonna stood up, shaky but determined.
"Go to his office," she commanded. "Go to the import business. Tell the Consigliere to patch us through to the Sicily team. This is an emergency."
I couldn't stall anymore.
I drove to the warehouse district, my hands gripping the steering wheel until they hurt.
The Vitiello import office was a front, but it was a busy one.
I walked past the secretaries and straight to the back office.
Frankie, the Consigliere, looked up from his ledger, startled.
"Sienna," he said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"Don Carlo had a stroke," I said, breathless. "It is bad."
Frankie's face paled. "I will send security to the clinic immediately."
"We need to reach Luca," I said. "Nonna is asking for him."
Frankie frowned, tilting his head. "Reach him? Why? He is on vacation."
The world stopped.
"Vacation?" I asked, the word feeling foreign on my tongue.
"Yeah," Frankie said, confused. "He quit two weeks ago. Said he was burnt out. Said he was taking a sabbatical in Spain. He cashed out his shares."
I closed my eyes, the darkness behind my lids spinning.
There was no mission.
There was no Sicily.
The Consigliere didn't even know about the lie Luca told us.
He just walked away.
I drove back to the clinic, purely on autopilot.
Nonna was pacing the hallway.
"Did you reach him?" she asked.
I took her hands.
They were cold and frail, trembling against my palms.
"Nonna," I said softly. "We need to sit down."
"Where is my son?"
"Luca is not in Sicily," I said, forcing the words out. "There is no mission."
She stared at me, uncomprehending. "What are you saying?"
"He quit the Family business," I said. "He emptied the safe. He filed for divorce before he left."
I watched the color drain from her face, leaving her ashen.
"No," she whispered. "My Luca... he is a good boy."
"He abandoned us," I said, my voice steady despite the rage boiling inside me. "He left you, he left Papa, and he left Mia. He took the money and ran."
Nonna swayed.
I caught her before she hit the floor.
She wailed, a sound of pure heartbreak that echoed down the sterile corridor, chilling me to the bone.
I held her tight.
I let her cry into my shoulder.
Later, the hospital administrator came with the bill for the surgery.
It was fifty thousand dollars, upfront.
Nonna looked at me, eyes red and swollen.
"The accounts..." she stammered. "Luca handled the accounts."
"The accounts are empty, Nonna," I said, the reality settling heavy in the room.
She looked ready to die.
I reached into my purse.
I pulled out my own checkbook.
I had my own money.
Money I had saved from my allowance, money I had made investing quietly online, money I hid because I never trusted the men in this world.
"I will take care of it," I said.
I wrote the check, the pen scratching loudly in the silence.
I handed it to the administrator.
Nonna watched me, shock replacing the grief in her eyes.
"Sienna," she whispered. "You stay? After what he did?"
I looked at her.
I looked at the door where Don Carlo was fighting for his life.
"I am a Vitiello," I lied, my voice steel. "Even if he is not."
I wasn't staying for Luca.
I was staying for the power vacuum he left behind.
And I was going to fill it.
