Page 59 of Possessive Mafia Vows

Sienna’s door opens before Seamus can bring the car to a halt.

I don’t miss a beat. I jump out, circling the car in a few strides. I’m not letting her do this alone.

A uniformed cop greets us at the doorway.

I can see more uniforms inside, but my gaze has already settled on what appears to be the remains of a shredded canvas, and hot, stinging bile rises in my throat.

“This is Sienna Walker,” I speak for her.

Sienna is frozen to the spot, one hand hovering over her mouth while her gaze darts back and forth, trying to see the destruction and not wanting to see it at the same time.

“She’s the owner of the gallery.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The cop’s faint smile is apologetic. “I’ll need to see some ID before I can let you inside.”

“Kyle…?” Sienna’s voice is barely audible. Her eyes are large with tears.

I slide my wallet from my jacket pocket and present my own ID to the cop. “My family owns the Wraith, the Rinse, and the Titan.”

I’m not above using our reputation when the situation calls for it, and right now, I’d bribe him with a Caribbean cruise for him and every member of his extended family, and his neighbors, if it would help Sienna.

The cop’s eyes hardly graze my ID before he waves us inside.

I hear him confirm our entry to a colleague, but the words hardly register in my brain as it tries to process what my eyes are seeing.

The floor is littered with strips of canvas, long jagged splinters of broken easel, splashes of color ripped out of context. Some paintings remain on the wall, but the torn artwork hangs from them in tatters. Nothing has been left untouched.

I feel numb, but when my eyes land on Sienna, she resembles a waxwork of the beautiful woman I know. Her face is ashen. Her expression is twisted into a combination of grief and disbelief. If someone broke into the Wraith and trashed the casino, I’d be gutted, but it doesn’t compare to the loss of Sienna’s artwork. She must feel as if her heart has been ripped from her chest and shredded into a million tiny irreparable pieces.

A female cop approaches us, flinching as she follows Sienna’s gaze to the painting that held pride of place at the launch, and is now torn straight down the middle, but still standing.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she says. “I realize how difficult this must be for you, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

Sienna turns huge, tear-filled eyes towards the woman, but doesn’t acknowledge her. She sways a little, and her hand instinctively reaches for mine. I squeeze it and slide my other arm around her shoulders. It’s all I can do for her in the moment.

It’s the least I can do.

If I hadn’t called her to the Wraith…

The police officer slides a small notepad and pen from her jacket pocket. “There were no obvious signs of a break-in. Can you tell me who else has a key to the property?”

Sienna’s breathing is shallow, and I give her another squeeze. “No one,” she whispers.

“Are you sure about that, ma’am?”

“Did you give Victoria a key?” I prompt.

“No.” Her voice is filled with panic like this is a test, and she’s scared of getting all the answers wrong. “Not with the baby. I didn’t want to put any pressure on her.”

“And does anyone else have access to your keys?” The cop’s gaze slides between me and Sienna.

“No.” Sienna chews her bottom lip and releases a heavy sigh. “It’s just…”

“Just what? Any information that you can give us will be helpful, ma’am.”

“My father. He took the keys to my apartment…” Sienna leaves the sentence hanging. “But I was here. I had the gallery key.”

“What about the spare?” I ask.

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