Sienna Vitiello POV
The blueprints had been a disaster when they first landed on my desk this morning—a chaotic sprawl of miscalculations. But by noon, I had coerced them into art.
I had been at Falcone Enterprises for three weeks.
In Chicago, I had been nothing more than an ornament. A wife-in-training schooled in the art of hosting a gala and keeping her pretty mouth shut.
Here, I was an architect.
I drew lines that became walls. I created spaces where people could live, breathe, and be safe.
Safe.
That was the only word that mattered to me now. Structure. Order. Control.
A sharp knock on my glass door shattered my concentration.
It was Enzo’s assistant. She was holding a vase.
Not roses.
Jasmine. Small, star-shaped white blooms that exhaled a scent of fresh rain and something wilder—freedom.
"Mr. Falcone thought you might like these," she said, placing them on the corner of my desk. "He said roses are too cliché for someone who builds skyscrapers."
I traced the velvet edge of a petal.
For seven years, Dante had sent roses. Red. Thorny. Predictable.
He never asked if I liked them. He just assumed every woman did.
Enzo noticed.
I looked through the glass wall of my office.
Enzo was in the conference room across the hall. He was leaning over a table, sleeves rolled up to expose the cords of his forearms, pointing at a map of the harbor.
As if sensing my gaze, he looked up.
His amber eyes locked onto mine.
He didn't smile. He didn’t look away. He just nodded, a small, acknowledging tilt of his head.
My heart did a strange, traitorous somersault in my chest.
I forced myself to look away.
I couldn't do this. I was damaged goods. I was a woman with a hole in her memory and a burn scar on her arm.
At five o'clock, he was waiting by the elevator.
"Dinner," he said. It wasn't a question.
I clutched my bag tighter, my knuckles turning white.
"Enzo, I can't. I’m not... I’m not ready for whatever this is."
He pressed the button for the lobby.
"You have to eat, Sienna. It’s just food. Unless you’re afraid of pasta."
I looked at him. He was teasing me.
Dante never teased. He commanded.
"One dinner," I said.
One dinner turned into three hours at a quiet Italian bistro in Brooklyn.
The wine was dark and heavy. I drank more than I should have.
The alcohol loosened the knot in my chest that had been tightening since I woke up in the hospital.
I told him about the amnesia.
I told him about waking up in a white room, knowing I was supposed to love a man who looked at me as if I were a piece of furniture he had purchased.
I didn't tell him about the fire. Not yet.
But the wine made me careless.
I reached for my glass, and my sleeve rode up.
The angry red welt on my forearm was exposed. The skin was puckered, a permanent reminder of the heat, the smoke, and the back of Dante’s suit as he walked away.
Enzo caught my wrist.
His grip was firm but gentle.
He didn't look away in disgust. He looked at the scar as if it were a map to a place he needed to understand.
"Who did this?" he asked. His voice was low, vibrating with a dangerous promise.
I pulled my arm back, covering it quickly.
"It was an accident," I lied. "A fire."
He looked at me. He saw the lie.
But he didn't push.
Instead, he reached across the table and took my hand again.
He lifted it to his lips.
He didn't kiss my knuckles.
With agonizing slowness, he pushed back the silk of my sleeve and pressed his lips directly against the scarred skin.
I gasped.
It should have hurt. It should have been ugly.
But his lips were warm.
"I promise you, Sienna," he whispered against my skin.
I froze.
"I will be the man who walks through fire for you," he said, his eyes burning into mine with a ferocity that stole my breath. "Not the one who leaves you to burn."
Tears pricked my eyes.
He knew.
He didn't need the details. He knew enough.
For the first time in seven years, the cold didn't reach me.
