Villa Rosso, Tuscany — Midnight
Laughter floated like smoke through the garden, twining between fairy lights and champagne flutes. The scent of roses was thick in the air, matched only by the warmth of summer and the glint of diamonds on Sienna's hand.
She stood at the edge of the dance floor, her fingers laced with Alessandro's — her husband, her protector, her world.
"You're staring," he murmured with a crooked smile.
"I'm memorizing," she replied.
Alessandro leaned in, brushing his lips against her forehead. "Then remember this—tonight, nothing touches us. Not the business. Not the world. Just us."
She smiled, heart full and foolish.
Then the shot rang out.
One second, he was whispering against her skin. The next, his body jerked against hers. Red bloomed across his white tuxedo like ink on silk. His eyes widened — not in fear, but recognition.
He tried to speak, but only blood came out.
Sienna dropped to her knees, cradling him as guests screamed and scattered. Men with guns rushed forward. Someone yelled for a doctor.
But she didn't hear them.
She only saw him — masked, standing on the balcony, the barrel of his rifle still smoking, before he vanished into the night.
She didn't cry. Not then.
She looked down at Alessandro's lifeless face, then at the crimson staining her dress.
A vow was born in that silence.
It wasn't if she would find them.
It was how many would die before she did.
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