Made & Marked By The Mafia

SIENNA There are days that bleed you dry, and then there are days that drag your corpse through broken glass after. Today was the latter. Working at Archie’s Diner wasn’t some dream job I’d fantasized about. It wasn’t a calling or a passion. It was survival—plain and simple. I had bills to pay, an empty stomach that didn’t believe in skipping meals, and a dream I hadn’t yet given up on: college. Every greasy plate I served and every fake smile I wore was a step closer to getting out. I didn’t come from a background that allowed luxury. My mother decided to overdose alongside her latest boyfriend when I was five, leaving nothing behind except a blank space where my father’s name should’ve been on the birth certificate. After that, it was foster home after foster home—bouncing from one stranger’s house to another, learning very quickly that people protect their own and discard the rest. I got good at pretending. Smiling when I wanted to scream. Being invisible when I needed to survive. And by the time I turned eighteen, I was done hoping someone might choose me. I chose myself. My life didn’t look like the one I imagined when I was a kid, staring out the window, trying to dream past the cracked glass and peeling walls. It was harder. Uglier. But it was mine. And no matter how long it took, no matter how many shifts I had to endure or how many sneers I had to swallow, I was going to make something of myself. I was going to be someone. Not because anyone handed me the chance, but because I fought for it. Alone. “Sienna!” Mr. Grayson's voice boomed from behind the counter. I didn't need to turn to see the vein pulsing in his forehead. “You forgot table five’s damn order again!” I hadn’t. But arguing with Grayson was like shouting into a hurricane. Pointless, deafening, and liable to leave you breathless. “I’ll fix it,” I said in a low, clipped voice. He stomped past me, making sure to “accidentally” shoulder me with enough force to make me stumble. His little displays of power were pathetic and so predictable at times that I felt like punching him in the face. He liked to think he was God in this cheap neon temple, and we—the waitresses, the cooks, the helps—were his lowly worshippers. I wasn't worshipping anything except my rent check. By the time the diner closed, I was the last one there, wiping down tables that weren’t mine, apologizing to customers I didn’t serve, and praying to a god I didn’t believe in that I wouldn’t be stuck with someone else's mistake again. But it was a little too late. Grayson tossed a crumpled receipt at me. “Till’s short. You counted it last.” “I didn’t count the register, Mindy did—” He raised a brow, and the smirk on his face was the kind that made my skin crawl. “You calling me a liar, sweetheart?” His words made my skin crawl. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. “No.” “That’s what I thought. Count again. And you’re not leaving until every cent is accounted for.” He walked out, leaving me alone with my anger and the echoes of the diner’s failing light fixtures. I didn’t scream. Screaming meant you cared. I didn’t have the energy to care. It was past midnight when I finally stepped out into the cold. My breath came out in short white puffs from all the exhaustion and my worn-out boots scraped against the cracked pavement, the street around me still and silent, save for the occasional growl of a distant engine or the whisper of wind between abandoned buildings. I shoved my hands in my coat pockets and kept walking. All I wanted was to get home, breathe and sleep. It was simple, like every other night, except it was not. I saw someone out of the corner of my eye—sprawled out near a lamppost, half in the gutter. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, some drunk passed out, or maybe a pile of trash. But then he moved. Barely. I stepped closer and there it was - a twitch of a hand. A wince. A groan so low it crawled under my skin like a warning. Fuck. I froze, my blood turning to ice. Every instinct screamed to walk away. Run. Pretend I didn’t see him because good things don’t come wrapped in bleeding bodies on the side of the road. But before my senses took over, I was walking toward him. I saw the blood before I saw him. Thick, dark crimson soaked through his shirt like an inkblot, spreading wide across his torso. He was slumped under the flickering yellow streetlamp, half in shadow, and still managed to look like something summoned from the underworld. Pale skin, clenched jaw, and that face—f**k, that face—all sharp lines and cruel beauty. Like he was carved by someone who liked their masterpieces a little dangerous. I froze, phone already in my hand, thumb hovering over the emergency call button. But then his eyes opened—black as sin and locked on me like I was the prey and he’d finally stopped running. “Don’t,” he said, voice rough and raw like it hurt to speak. “Don’t what?” “No cops. No hospital.” The words were low, guttural. Almost a growl. I stared at him, torn between calling anyway and doing something incredibly stupid. “I’m not a doctor, you know. You’re bleeding out. A lot.” “No hospitals.” This time, it was a command. Not a plea. Like he didn’t know how to ask—only order. It rolled off his tongue with the weight of someone who expected obedience. That should’ve sent me running in the opposite direction. But it didn’t. Instead, I stepped closer. I muttered something uncharitable under my breath and helped him to his feet, slinging his arm around my shoulders. He was solid and warm and soaked in blood, and when he leaned into me, I almost collapsed under the weight of it—of him. But I didn’t stop. We made it to the street, one painful shuffle at a time. I flagged down a cab with a sharp gesture, tossing a twenty at the driver when he hesitated. “13th and Wyatt,” I said, tone sharper than a knife’s edge. The driver blinked, glanced at the blood like he wanted to say something, then wisely kept his mouth shut. Smart man. In this city, you don’t ask questions. You see blood, you look away. Because asking might get you a bullet in the brain. My apartment wasn’t much. The walls were cracked, the lights were flickering green and yellow, and the stairs creaked like they were dying a slow death. But it was the only thing I could afford, and still behind on the rent. And for some Goddamned reason, I was bringing a bleeding stranger home like it was a good idea. By the time we reached my place, I was shaking from the effort of keeping him upright. He barely registered when I pushed open the door and helped him onto the couch. His body hit the cushions hard, and a guttural sound escaped his throat. It wasn’t a cry or from pain but more from frustration and anger, like he hated being weak. With one last look at the stranger bleeding on my couch, I dashed inside the bathroom looking for a first aid kit.