Page 83 of Ruined By Blood
We make our way downstairs together, his hand at the small of my back. The gesture feels protective rather than possessive—a distinction I'm still getting used to.
When we enter the dining room, everyone else has already gathered. Damiano and Alessio are deep in conversation while Zoe arranges something on the table. But it's Lucrezia who catches my attention immediately.
She's wearing a stunning emerald green cocktail dress with a plunging neckline, her dark hair swept up in an elegant style. Diamonds glitter at her ears and throat. She looks like she's about to attend a red carpet event, not a family dinner.
I freeze in the doorway, suddenly feeling underdressed and out of place. "Maybe I should change," I whisper to Enzo. "I didn't realize this was formal."
Lucrezia spots us and glides over, the skirt of her dress swishing dramatically. "You look lovely," she says, kissing my cheek.
"I feel underdressed compared to you," I admit, gesturing at her outfit. "Maybe I should have worn something more formal."
Zoe overhears and laughs, joining us. "Don't worry about it. We don't have a dress code here."
Lucrezia tosses her hair back with a dramatic sigh. "I never get to go anywhere special these days, so I wear my dresses whenever I can." She twirls, making the fabric flare out. "Even if we're just jogging in the garden, I'll wear sequins if I feel like it."
"It's true," Zoe confirms with an eye roll. "Last week she wore a cocktail dress to water the plants."
"Life's too short for boring clothes," Lucrezia declares, linking her arm through mine. "But your dress is perfect. Simple and elegant."
Her easy acceptance makes the tension in my shoulders release.
I take my seat at the dinner table, still feeling a bit nervous despite Lucrezia's reassurance. The Feretti dining room is beautiful—all dark wood and crystal glasses that catch the light from the chandelier overhead. Ettore has outdone himself again, serving plates of what looks like homemade ravioli with a fragrant sauce that makes my mouth water.
I glance around at the faces surrounding me. I've spent time with Enzo and Lucrezia and Zoe but I've barely exchanged more than a few words with Damiano or Alessio. They're still strangers to me, powerful men in a dangerous world.
Damiano sits at the head of the table, his postureperfect, shoulders broad in his tailored shirt. His face carries the same hard edges as Enzo's—a man clearly accustomed to giving orders and having them followed without question. But then Zoe leans over to whisper something in his ear, and his entire expression transforms. The stern lines soften, his eyes crinkle at the corners, and a gentle smile replaces his serious expression.
So that's what love looks like, I think to myself. The way he gazes at her makes something twist in my chest—a mix of wonder and longing.
"How are you finding your stay with us, Sienna?" Damiano asks, his attention shifting to me.
I straighten in my chair. "Everyone has been very kind," I say carefully. "Especially considering the circumstances."
"The Ferettis protect their own," he replies simply, as if I somehow belong in that category now.
Alessio reaches for his wine glass. "We're not all scary mafia men all the time," he says with a wink. "Though Enzo tries his hardest to maintain the image."
"Speaking of images," Enzo interrupts, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Should we tell Sienna about the charity gala last year? When you tried to impress that redhead by claiming you could speak fluent French?"
Alessio groans dramatically. "I thought we agreed never to mention that again."
"He spent the entire evening avoiding her after she turned out to be from Paris," Enzo continues, grinning at me. "She cornered him by the dessert table and asked him a question in French. His response was to stuff an entire éclair in his mouth and pretend to choke."
A laugh bubbles up from my chest. I cover my mouth, but it's too late.
"See what I have to deal with?" Alessio gestures toward Enzo. "No respect."
"The lady asked for your number while you were still coughing up pastry cream," Damiano adds, joining in the teasing.
I laugh again, feeling something tight inside me loosen just a little more.
"We're happy to have you join us for dinner, Sienna," Damiano says, his intense gaze softening as he looks at me. "It's good to see new faces at our table."
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. I've spent years analyzing men's expressions, searching for hidden meanings and threats beneath their words. But Damiano's statement seems genuinely welcoming.
"Thank you," I reply, my voice quieter than I intended. I clear my throat and try again. "I appreciate being included."
Damiano nods, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. He looks so much like Enzo when he does that—the same strong jawline, the same confident posture. But where Enzo burns hot, Damiano seems to simmer with a cooler, more controlled intensity.
