The second man slammed into her, knife driving down. She caught his wrist inches from her face and felt muscle failing, the blade creeping lower, adrenaline turning the world into one long white shriek.
Then a gunshot split the kitchen.
The man jerked sideways and collapsed.
Dante Valenti stood in the doorway with a pistol in his hand and murder on his face.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t shout. He walked in like judgment taking human form. Behind him, Morelli soldiers flooded the kitchen, neutral efficient shadows in black suits.
Dante’s gaze landed on Casey. Blood streaked her cheek. Her blouse was torn. She was still gripping the skillet.
“You stole my motorcycle,” he said.
Casey was panting too hard to smile properly, but she managed something close. “And yet I brought it back.”
His eyes dropped to the broken men on the floor, then back to her face.
Something unreadable flickered there.
The ride home was silent except for Sienna’s shaking breaths from the back seat. At the estate, Salvatore listened to what happened with a face so still it seemed carved from salt.
When Casey finished, he set down his glass.
“You saved my daughter,” he said.
“She was being baited,” Casey replied. “Someone knew where she’d be.”
Dante looked at her sharply. “You noticed that?”
“I notice everything.”
Salvatore opened a drawer, took out a thick stack of cash, and slid it across the desk. “A bonus.”
Casey didn’t touch it. “Spend it on better security.”
For the first time, Dante looked almost entertained. Salvatore looked almost impressed.
From that night on, Sienna changed.
Not all at once. Healing almost never arrives with that kind of theatrical courtesy. But the girl who came down to breakfast the next morning looked smaller somehow, not physically, but in the way catastrophe shrinks the distance between performance and truth.
“They said they were going to cut me up,” she whispered into her coffee without meeting Casey’s eyes.
Leave a Comment