Page 20 of Ruined By Blood
He clears his throat, but the smirk remains. "Not at all. Please, continue telling us about the... buttermilk."
My jaw clenches. "Fuck off."
And just like that, my attempt at being approachable shatters. I've never been good at this gentle shit. Leave that to Lucrezia and Zoe.
"Language at breakfast," Damiano says, but his lips twitch upward.
"Oh please," Zoe rolls her eyes. "Like you don't curse when you burn your toast."
Lucrezia giggles. "Remember when he dropped that entire pot of sauce before the Marconi dinner? I learned three new Italian curse words."
The tension breaks as everyone laughs—everyone except Sienna. She doesn't join in, but her eyes move from person to person, studying us. The death grip on her napkin loosens slightly.
I catch her watching me, her blue eyes unreadable. She doesn't smile, but something in her posture shifts—the rigid line of her shoulders relaxes a fraction. It's barely noticeable, but to me, it's like watching ice begin to crack.
It's not trust. Not even close. But it's something.
Idrop my gaze as the family's banter about Damiano's cursing dies down. The waffles on my plate sit mostly untouched, but I've managed a few bites—more than I expected when I first sat down.
"Well, I should get back to work," Damiano announces, standing from his chair. His presence fills the room even as he prepares to leave it. "Meetings all morning."
"I'll walk with you," Zoe says, her hand resting briefly on his arm in a gesture so casual yet intimate it makes me look away. "Sienna, it was lovely to meet you. I hope you'll be comfortable here."
I manage a small nod, my fingers twisting in the fabric of my borrowed pants. They leave together, their footsteps fading down the hallway.
Alessio drains his coffee cup and rises next. "I need to handle something downtown," he says, his eyes flicking between Enzo and me. Some unspoken message passes between the men before he nods at Lucrezia. "Later, kid."
Lucrezia rolls her eyes at him but smiles, the easy affection between them so different from anything I've known.
The room feels both emptier and less suffocating as they depart.
I can feel Enzo watching me.
My gaze remains fixed on the half-eaten waffle, studying the pattern of the fork marks I've made. The weight of his attention presses against me, but I refuse to look up. I've learned that lesson all too well.
Eyes reveal too much—both mine and his. When people look at me, really look, they see things I don't want them to see. Vulnerability. Fear. Weakness. And when I look at them, I see truth beneath their masks. My father taught me early that meeting someone's gaze was dangerous, like offering your throat to a predator.
But something about Enzo's eyes makes my skin prickle with awareness. I caught a glimpse when he found me in the garden—dark intensity focused entirely on me. Not the way men usually look at me, assessing my value or use. Something different. Something that makes me want to look back, to understand what I see there.
But I can't. If I look at him, really look, he might see through me too. Read the desperation and fear in my eyes. See the shameful secret of who I am and what I've done. What's been done to me.
So I keep my eyes down, counting the seconds until I can escape this quiet scrutiny, this gentle trap of breakfast and family and things that aren't mine to have.
The silence stretches between us like a taut wire. I can practically feel Enzo's eyes on me, studying every move, every breath. When he finally pushes back his chair, the scraping sound makes me flinch.
"I have work to do," he says, his voice low. "Lucrezia,you'll..." He doesn't finish the sentence, but something passes between them—some silent understanding.
"Of course," Lucrezia answers brightly.
Enzo lingers for a moment, and I sense him wanting to say something else. But he just exhales and leaves, his footsteps fading down the hallway.
I release the breath I didn't realize I was holding.
"He makes you nervous," Lucrezia says. It's not a question.
I fiddle with my fork, dragging it through the pool of syrup on my plate. "Every man makes me nervous."
"Are you afraid of my brother?" she asks directly.
