Page 71 of Ruined By Blood
She looks up at me with those ice-blue eyes, the same shade as mine but worlds apart in what they've witnessed. Where mine have seen violence I chose, hers have endured horrors forced upon her.
"Will you stay?" The question comes out barelyabove a whisper, like she's afraid to ask for anything, even this small comfort.
"Until you fall asleep." I shift her gently on the bed, careful of her bruises. "I'm not going anywhere."
I settle beside her, my back against the headboard, one hand continuing to stroke her hair. The steady rhythm seems to calm her. Her breathing gradually evens out, though occasionally a small tremor runs through her body—the physical memory of trauma that won't release its grip easily.
Minutes pass in silence. I watch her face relax in increments, the furrow between her brows slowly smoothing out. She fights sleep at first, her eyes fluttering open to check that I'm still there before closing again.
"I've got you," I whisper, more to myself than to her.
Eventually her breathing deepens, her body growing heavier against me. Once I'm certain she's truly asleep, I carefully extract myself from the bed, making sure not to jostle her. I adjust the blankets around her shoulders before stepping back to look at her.
In sleep, the hard edges of fear and vigilance soften from her face. She looks younger, more like the innocent she should have been allowed to remain. Something cracks open in my chest, raw and painful.
I quietly leave the room, pulling the door closed with a gentle click. My footsteps echo down the hallway as I make my way to the kitchen, my mind already mapping out the next steps to keep her safe and fed.
The kitchen is warm and fragrant when I push through the swinging door. Ettore stands at the counter, chopping vegetables with practiced precision, his movements quick and sure despite his advancing years. The family cook looks up at my entrance, his knife pausing mid-slice.
"Enzo," he greets me, eyes sharp and assessing. "You look ready to murder someone."
"I am."
Ettore nods, resuming his chopping without missing a beat. He's been with the family long enough to know when not to ask questions. The steady rhythm of his knife against the cutting board fills the silence.
"Sienna," I say after a moment, leaning against the counter. "She needs food. Something easy on the stomach. Simple, nothing too rich."
Ettore nods, already shifting gears mentally, his experienced mind no doubt cycling through appropriate dishes. "I'll make something light. Broth, some fresh bread. Maybe a little pastina if she can handle it."
"Good." I straighten up, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension. "When it's ready, let me know. I want to bring it up myself."
"Of course." Ettore studies me for a moment, his gaze too knowing for comfort. "You care about this one."
It's not a question, so I don't answer. Instead, I turn to leave, pausing at the doorway.
"Make enough for two."
My feet carry me automatically to Damiano's office. When I push the door open, I find exactly what I expected: a war council waiting for me.
Damiano sits behind his massive desk, fingers steepled in front of him. Zoe stands beside him, one hand resting protectively on her small baby bump. Alessio leans against the wall, arms crossed, looking like the human weapon he is. And Lucrezia—my heart aches seeing her there, perched on the edge of a chair, looking both fragile and determined.
"She's sleeping," I announce, closing the door behind me.
Four pairs of eyes track my movements as I cross to the empty chair in front of Damiano's desk. I drop into it, feeling every one of my thirty-four years pressing down on me.
"Tell us," Damiano says simply.
The room falls silent, waiting.
"Sterling's been selling her since she was fourteen." The words taste like acid in my mouth. "His own fucking daughter."
Zoe's sharp intake of breath cuts through the silence. Lucrezia's eyes close briefly, pain flashing across her features.
"It started with business associates. Favors for men who could help Sterling expand his empire." I stare at my hands, imagining them around Sterling's throat. "The first one was the man at the bar."
Alessio mutters something in Italian that would make a priest blush.
"Her mother tried to protect her." I continue, my voice hardening. "Sterling beat her so badly she needed hospitalization. Used her as an example of what would happen if Sienna didn't cooperate."
