Siena POV
"We do not need him, Leo."
I crouched down to his eye level and smoothed a stray curl away from his forehead.
"We only need each other."
I took my son’s hand and led him out of the portrait studio. We bypassed the waiting photographer, whose expectant smile faltered as we walked straight past him and toward the armored SUV idling at the curb.
The official Family Portrait was dead. Just like everything else between us.
As soon as we returned to the penthouse, I retrieved our tactical go-bags from a hidden compartment behind a false wall in my closet. Their contents had been assembled piecemeal over the last thirty days: every essential item, every untraceable document, every component of our new identity, secured inside.
My phone buzzed on the vanity.
It was a secure message from an unknown number, but I knew exactly who it was.
I opened the encrypted video file.
Valeria’s face filled the screen. She was sitting on a plush velvet sofa, dabbing at her perfectly dry eyes with a tissue. Dante was pacing in the background, barking orders into his radio, organizing a perimeter sweep for a threat that did not exist. Mateo was sitting on the floor, playing with a toy Dante had bought him.
"We are so lucky Dante is here to protect us," Valeria whispered into the camera, a wicked, gloating smile pulling at her lips. "I do not know what Mateo and I would do without him."
She ended the video.
I stared at the black screen. A year ago, this would have sent me into a rage. I would have thrown the phone against the mirror. I would have screamed until my throat was raw.
Now, I felt only a profound and settled coldness, as peaceful as it was complete.
The phone was tossed onto the bedspread, its screen quickly going dark. I picked up the satellite device; its hard, angular casing felt unforgiving in my palm. My most loyal Consigliere—the only man in the Syndicate who answered to my bloodline, not Dante’s—answered on the third ring.
"Charter the private jet," I ordered, my voice steady. "Neutral territory. We leave tomorrow afternoon."
It was done.
Two hours later, the tumblers of the reinforced penthouse door clicked open.
Dante walked in. His security detail fanned out into the hallway, securing the perimeter before the door sealed shut behind him.
He was holding a large, expensive bakery box.
"I bought a cake," Dante announced, his deep voice laboring to project a normalcy that felt utterly false.
He set the box on the marble kitchen island and flipped the lid open. A pristine, elaborate strawberry cake sat inside, covered in fresh glaze and spun sugar.
"A peace offering," he said, loosening his silk tie. "Mateo was terrified. A stray cat set off the motion sensors, but I had to stay to calm him down. I saw this bakery on the way back."
I stared at the red fruit.
Dante hated strawberries. He despised the taste.
And Leo was mildly allergic to them.
My son preferred dark chocolate. He had preferred dark chocolate since he was three years old. The man who commanded the most powerful Family in the city had forgotten the simple physical aversions of his own son.
I did not point it out. It was no longer my job to correct his blindness.
Dante’s dark eyes scanned the room. He stopped. His gaze locked onto the three large tactical bags sitting by the entryway.
His posture instantly shifted. The relaxed husband vanished, replaced by the lethal vigilance of the Boss.
"What is that?" Dante asked, his voice dropping an octave.
"Luggage," I replied evenly.
Dante took a slow step toward me. His dark eyes narrowed, sweeping over my calm demeanor. "Are we going on a vacation?"
"Just a trip," I said, keeping my tone vague and icy.
He stared at me for a long moment, trying to read the utter stillness in my eyes. He found nothing.
"I will reschedule the official Family Portrait for tomorrow," Dante said, taking another step closer until his chest was inches from me. "I swear on my life, Siena. I will not break this vow. Tomorrow, we take the photo."
Leo walked into the kitchen at that exact moment.
He heard the promise. I saw a desperate, fugitive spark of hope ignite in my son’s eyes. He wanted to believe his father. He wanted his hero back.
I gave Leo a subtle, imperceptible nod. The spark died instantly, replaced by the cold discipline I had instilled in him.
Dante turned his attention to Leo. His jaw tightened.
"Now," Dante said, his voice a low, demanding growl. "Tell me why my Heir addressed me as 'Sir'."
