Page 19 of Ruined By Blood
She pours the bright orange liquid into a glass and sets it before me. Then, just as naturally, she serves herself, chatting with Zoe about some show they both watch.
Around me, conversation resumes. Damiano discusses something about shipping routes with Alessio. Enzo joins in occasionally, his deep voice making me tense each time.
I stare at my plate, overwhelmed by this strange normalcy. My father never ate with me unless he was introducing me to "business associates." Meals were functional, not social.
No one has served me food since my mother left.
I take a small bite of waffle, the sweetness exploding on my tongue. It's so good I have to stop myself from wolfing it down, aware that eating too quickly might make me sick.
"The waffles are Ettore's specialty," Lucrezia says, noticing my reaction. "He'll be personally offended if you don't have seconds."
The simple act of someone caring what I eat, how I feel about the food—it creates a strange ache in my chest. I don't know what to do with this feeling, this glimpse of what normal might be like.
CHAPTER 8
Iwatch her from across the table, tracking every movement while pretending not to. Sienna keeps her gaze fixed on her plate, carefully cutting her waffle into precise squares she barely touches. She hasn't looked in my direction once since sitting down—not even a glance.
"The Martinez shipment arrived yesterday," Damiano says, his voice deliberately casual. "Everything accounted for."
I nod, playing along with this sanitized breakfast conversation. "Good. Any word from our friends in Chicago?"
"Nothing urgent." Damiano's eyes flick toward Sienna before returning to me. "Business as usual."
The tension in the room is palpable. Our family breakfasts are usually full of Zoe challenging Damiano and my dry observations. But today, with Sienna at the table, we're like actors in a poorly rehearsed play—all aware we're censoring ourselves for the stranger among us.
Sienna flinches when Alessio's fork clatters against his plate. I notice her fingers twisting the fabric of the napkin in her lap, a nervous habit I've already cataloged. She's afraid—of all of us, but especially of me.
The realization sits like lead in my stomach. I don't like it. Not one fucking bit.
I've spent years cultivating fear, wielding it like a weapon against enemies. But seeing this broken girl terrified of me makes me want to punch something. She should be afraid of the monsters who hurt her, not the man trying to protect her.
Zoe leans forward, her voice gentle. "Sienna, is there anything you need? Clothes or personal items we could get for you?"
Sienna's head snaps up, eyes wide like a cornered animal. "No, I—I'm fine. Thank you."
Her voice is barely above a whisper, but I catch the tremor in it.
"Are you sure?" Zoe presses. "It's no trouble."
"The clothes in the room are sufficient." Sienna's gaze drops back to her plate. "I don't need anything."
Don't need anything or don't want to ask for anything? I wonder which it is.
Damiano clears his throat. "We're planning to open another restaurant downtown next month. Something casual, family-style Italian."
I play along, but my attention remains fixed on Sienna.
She sits perfectly still, shoulders hunched slightly as iftrying to make herself smaller. Every few minutes, her eyes dart toward the nearest exit before returning to her plate.
I shift strategies, deciding on a different approach with Sienna. Maybe if I soften my usual tone, she'll see I'm not the monster she believes.
"The, uh, waffles are good today. Ettore makes them from scratch." I force my voice to sound lighter, more conversational. The words feel strange in my mouth, like I'm speaking a language I barely know. "The secret is buttermilk. Makes them fluffy."
What the fuck am I doing talking about waffle recipes?
A choking sound draws my attention. Alessio is hiding behind his coffee mug, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. His eyes dance with amusement as he watches my pathetic attempt at small talk.
"Something funny, Alessio?" I growl.
