The Broken Artist's Spectacular Mafia Comeback

Sienna POV:

Through the peephole, I see Maria standing in the hallway, her posture uncertain.

I pull open the door.

She offers me a sympathetic look, extending a sleek white bakery box, her hands unsteady. Her eyes are red-rimmed, as though she has been crying, and she will not meet my gaze.

"Victor commanded me to bring this to you," Maria says, her voice low.

I take the box and lift the lid.

A large mango mousse cake sits inside.

The bright orange glaze is a cruel jest I am not meant to find amusing.

Victor ordered this. Victor, who once woke me at three in the morning because the restaurant we'd dined at had used peanut oil, and he'd spent an hour on the phone with poison control to make sure it wasn't cross-contaminated with shellfish. That Victor sent his wife a cake made of something he thinks she is allergic to.

He remembers my allergy. He simply does not care enough to get it right.

I look at Maria—really look at her—and I see the silent apology written across her face. She knows. She has always known. But she is an employee, and Victor is her Capo. She cannot defy him without consequences.

"Thank you, Maria," I say. "You may return to the office."

She hesitates. "Mrs. DeLuca," she whispers, using my married name for the last time, "please be careful."

Then she nods and hurries away down the carpeted hall.

I leave the cake on the small table by the window, untouched.

The cake sits there all day. By evening, the mango glaze has begun to weep, tiny beads of orange liquid pooling on the white cardboard. It looks like the cake is crying.

Late in the afternoon, the heavy oak door of my room swings open without the courtesy of a knock.

Victor strides in, having used his syndicate clearance to override the lock.

He looks around the small room, his lip curling in disgust. "This is beneath you," he says, as though the room is the problem.

"You are staying here?" he asks. "Come home, Sienna. I sent you a cake."

I point to the untouched box.

"I detest the flavor of mango, Victor. I have always detested it."

He sighs, a loud, theatrical sound, and runs a hand through his dark hair.

"I told Gia to collect it," he says. "She is an Associate. She handles such errands. She has a severe mango allergy, so I thought I would bring it to you, since you have no issue with them."

The words land in my chest like a bullet. He knew she was allergic. He protected her from the very thing he sent to me.

I fold my arms, the fabric of my sleeves a thin shield between us.

"So you specifically recalled what she could not consume when you ordered it?" I ask.

Victor's face becomes a mask of stone. But I see the flicker—that half-second of recognition before he buries it. He knows I am right, and that knowledge only makes him angrier.

"Do not be ridiculous," he says. "She is a low-level Associate."

I pull out my phone, call up the screenshot Maria sent, and hold the screen up to his face.

"Did you specifically order mango-free takeout for Gia last week?" I ask, my voice dangerously even.

Victor does not flinch.

"Gia is highly allergic to mangoes," he says, his tone defensive. "As her Capo, it is my duty to be aware of my crew's vulnerabilities. It is a matter of survival."

I stare at him, allowing the silence to thicken in the air between us.

"And what is your duty as a husband?" I ask.

His temper flares, the composure falling away.

He takes a step toward me, his shadow falling across my face.

"You are paranoid, Sienna." His voice drops, the sound a low growl. "You have played the part of the sheltered mafia wife for so long you are disconnected from the way things truly operate. I keep you safe. That is my duty."

Safe. He uses that word while standing next to a mango cake he sent me, while the woman he protects from mangoes sits in his office drinking the coffee he knows she likes. The absurdity of it would make me laugh if it didn't make me want to scream.

My hands curl into fists, my nails digging into the flesh of my palms.

"I kept you safe," I say, my voice low and taut. "When your first enterprise was crushed, when you were bleeding in a damp basement, I abandoned my art to nurse you. I built the encryption codes you use today. Every route you run, every dollar you launder, every alliance you hold—I drew those blueprints with these hands."

"Your first enterprise failed because you trusted the wrong people," I continue, watching his jaw tighten. "You were too careless to check their loyalties, too arrogant to see the betrayal coming. I taught you how to read people. I built the systems that made you untouchable. And now you stand here, telling me you keep me safe, while you remember another woman's allergies and forget mine."

Victor's jaw tightens, a muscle working beneath his skin. His eyes flicker to my hands, then away. He cannot bear to look at the evidence of his debt.

"That was four years ago," he snaps. "I am a Capo now."

"You are a Capo because of me," I say. "And the man I made you into would disgust the man I saved."

"Your memory is as corrupt as your conscience," I tell him, holding my ground.

I walk over to the closet and retrieve my suitcase.

"This hotel is no longer secure," I say. "I am moving to Rosa's safehouse. Take your cake and leave."

I drag the suitcase past him, my shoulder brushing his arm.

He does not try to stop me, his pride a fortress.

I walk down the hallway, take the elevator to the lobby, and step out onto the busy street.

The cold wind strikes my face, a shock that clears my head.

I stand on the curb, waiting for my transport.

My phone buzzes in my hand.

It is a text from Victor.

"Fine. I grant you permission to take a few days. Stop this madness and come home when you are finished."

I stare at the word permission, a foul taste rising in my throat.

I delete the message, block his number, and step into the black armored SUV that Rosa sent for me, pulling the heavy door closed on my former life. As the engine roars to life, I press my palm flat against the cold window and make a silent vow. The next time Victor sees me, I will not be the woman he dismissed. I will be the architect of his undoing.

And this time, I will use my left hand.