The sound of her own breathing filled her ears, harsh and uneven.
Smoke still clung to the air, settling like ash on her skin.
But Sienna didn’t feel the sting.
All she felt was the fire rising in her chest.
He didn’t die from the gunshot.
He was poisoned.
Her vision tunneled, memories crashing over her like a wave she hadn’t braced for—her father collapsing, the glass of wine he’d barely touched, the sudden look of confusion in his eyes before the light went out.
She had buried that night under layers of grief and rage.
But now it clawed its way back to the surface.
Luciano touched her arm gently. “Sienna…”
She shook her head. “No. No more running blind. He said the one who poisoned my father sent him—that means Il Primo didn’t just want my father gone. He wanted him silence
