Chapter 11
Sienna POV
The cloying scent of white lilies was suffocating.
They filled every corner of the hotel ballroom, a heavy, floral shroud trying to mask the underlying stench of old money and gunpowder that clung to the men in the room.
It was the night of our rehearsal dinner.
Dante stood behind me, a looming presence.
His hand rested on the small of my back—a heavy, possessive weight that grounded me even as it trapped me.
"Are you happy, Sienna?" he asked, his voice a low rumble vibrating against the shell of my ear.
I looked toward the head table, where Don Carlo was laughing heartily at something Mia had whispered.
Beside him, Nonna Rosa was nervously tracing the rim of her wine glass with a linen napkin, her eyes overly bright.
"I am safe," I answered, keeping my gaze fixed on the crystal. "That is better than happy."
Dante’s fingers tightened on the silk of my dress, bunching the expensive fabric.
"I will give you both."
Suddenly, the double doors at the far end of the ballroom crashed open.
The sound echoed like a gunshot across the marble floors, sharp and violent.
Instantly, the air shifted. Every man in the room reached for his waistband.
The silence that followed was absolute, heavy with the promise of violence.
A figure stood in the gaping doorway.
He looked like a wraith dragged in from the gutter.
His clothes were little more than rags, stained dark with grease and ancient dirt.
His hair was matted, hanging in greasy strings around a gaunt, sunburned face that spoke of long suffering.
He smelled of rot and old sweat.
The foul scent drifted toward us, cutting through the perfume of the lilies like a blade.
He scanned the room with wild, feverish eyes until they landed on me.
"Sienna!"
The scream tore from his throat, raw and animalistic.
He charged.
He didn't run like a man; he moved like a desperate, wounded thing, flailing and stumbling toward the high table.
The security detail hesitated, their instincts dulled by the sheer absurdity of the threat—they hadn't expected a homeless man to storm a Capo's wedding rehearsal.
But Dante didn't hesitate.
He moved in a blur of black suit and focused violence.
He stepped in front of me, shielding my body with his own broad frame.
As the man reached us, Dante didn't bother to grab him.
He kicked him.
His polished dress shoe connected with the man's chest with a sickening crunch.
The intruder flew backward, sliding across the polished marble floor like a discarded ragdoll.
He curled into a ball, wheezing, clutching his shattered ribs.
Three soldiers were on him instantly, guns drawn, pressing cold steel muzzles to his temple.
"Wait!" the man shrieked.
He coughed, spitting bright red blood onto the pristine white floor.
He looked up, his desperate eyes finding the head table.
"Mom! Dad! Tell them to stop!"
The sound of shattering glass cut through the room.
Nonna Rosa had dropped her wine glass, the red wine bleeding across the white tablecloth like a fresh wound.
The man on the floor tried to push himself up, but a soldier kicked his arm out from under him, pinning him down.
"It's me," he sobbed, his gaze locking onto the stunned faces of the people who had mourned him.
"It's Luca."
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