Rising From Ashes: The Architect's Comeback

Sienna Vitiello POV

I lied to Giulia.

I told her I had slipped in the shower.

If I told her the truth—that the Underboss of the Chicago Outfit had assaulted the daughter of the Vitiello Consigliere—it wouldn’t just cause a scene. It would start a war.

My father would call for blood. The Commission would intervene.

I wasn't ready for war. I needed an exit strategy first.

So I sat in the VIP booth of The Velvet Room, a glass of ice water in my hand, watching the strobe lights cut through the thick, manufactured smoke.

Giulia had organized this "Freedom Party" to celebrate my discharge from the hospital.

She was trying so hard.

"Look," she said, sliding a stack of polaroids across the sticky table.

They were old photos. Artifacts from another life. Me and Dante at a gala. Me and Dante at Christmas.

I stared at my own face in the glossy prints. I looked desperate. I was leaning into him, my body curved like a question mark, my eyes wide with adoration. He looked bored, his gaze somewhere else.

"Do you feel anything?" Giulia asked, her voice laced with fragile hope.

I looked at the stranger in the photo.

"I feel sad for her," I said honestly. "She looks hungry."

Giulia sighed, sweeping the photos back into her purse.

The music shifted, dropping into a heavy, vibrating bass beat.

Then, the velvet curtain to the VIP section parted.

The air in the room changed instantly. It became heavier, charged with a sudden, suffocating static.

Dante walked in.

He was wearing a fresh suit, black on black, cut to fit his broad shoulders perfectly.

Valeria was on his arm, wearing a red dress that was less a garment and more a second skin.

They looked like royalty. Dark, twisted royalty.

Dante scanned the room, his predator’s gaze sweeping over the crowd until it landed on me.

He paused.

He probably expected me to be at home, crying into a pillow, hiding my bruises.

Instead, I was here. Wearing a black slip dress, my hair slicked back to cover the bandage on my temple.

I held his gaze. I didn't blink.

He frowned, a tiny, almost imperceptible crease appearing between his brows.

Breaking eye contact first, he guided Valeria to the booth opposite ours.

They held court. Soldiers brought them drinks immediately. Women vied for a second of Dante’s attention. Valeria preened like a peacock, soaking it all in.

Giulia glared at them.

"Ignore him," she said fiercely. "Let’s play a game."

Someone suggested Truth or Dare.

It was childish, but we were drunk on expensive vodka and the proximity to power.

The empty bottle spun on the table.

It slowed, wobbled, and landed on me.

"Truth or Dare, Sienna?" a soldier named Marco asked.

"Truth," I said.

Marco grinned, glancing nervously at Dante across the aisle before turning back to me.

"Who was your first love?"

The table went dead quiet.

Everyone knew the answer. It was supposed to be Dante. It was always Dante.

I took a slow sip of my water.

I looked at the glass, watching a bead of condensation slide down the rim and onto my finger.

I thought about the seven years of handwritten notes. The deleted photos. The cold, shocking water of the pool.

"My first love?" I repeated.

I looked directly at Dante.

He was watching me, a glass of amber scotch halfway to his mouth.

He looked arrogant. Assured. Certain of my answer.

"It was a waste of time," I said clearly, my voice cutting through the thumping music like a blade.

Dante’s hand froze in mid-air.

"Seven years of loyalty given to a ghost," I continued, my tone bored, almost clinical. "I regret every single second of it."

Valeria gasped.

Dante set his glass down. Hard. The liquid sloshed over the rim, staining the table.

I turned back to Marco and offered him a thin, razor-sharp smile.

"Next question."