The return to the main Costa estate was supposed to be a victory lap. After the smoke of the infiltration had cleared and the blood of the Russo-loyalists had been scrubbed from the marble stairs, Luciano had brought us back here to show the world that his power was absolute. The villa had been restored to a level of opulence that was almost blinding. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen tears from the ceilings, and the scent of fresh lilies fought to hide the metallic memory of death that still lingered in the corners of the grand foyer.
For weeks, I had tried to play the part. I was Siena Costa, the wife of the most feared man in Naples. Luciano had spent every waking hour molding me, polishing the "innocent flower" of the Russo family until I was a blade he could wield. I had let him.
