chapter 33
Siena stepped back into the room, her hands trembling as she grabbed her own clothes. She didn't cry. Rossi women didn't cry over cracks in the ceiling; they figured out how to shore them up—or they let the whole thing burn. She left his phone exactly where she had found it. When Julian returned twenty minutes later, he found Siena dressed in her charcoal wool dress, her bags packed and sitting by the door. She was standing by the window, her back to him, her posture as rigid as the limestone of Blackwood Hall. "Siena?" Julian asked, his voice cautious. He felt the shift in the room immediately. The bridge was swaying. "What are you doing? The gala guests are coming for brunch at ten." Siena turned around. Her eyes weren't wet, but they were as cold as the North Sea. "I was thin
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