99 Roses for the Underboss's Wife

Siena POV

Hours later, I sat in the center of our sprawling penthouse, the silence of the massive space pressing down on me.

The front door clicked open.

Dante walked in, his imposing frame filling the entryway, carrying a massive bouquet of rare white roses.

He grew them himself in his private greenhouse—a twisted hobby for a man whose hands were always stained with blood.

He walked over and placed the roses on the glass coffee table, his expression an arrogant mask of feigned contrition.

"I was harsh this morning," Dante said, his deep voice vibrating through the quiet room. "But you know my duty to The Family comes first. I have to hold you to a higher standard."

I looked at the pristine white petals, then up into the dark, barren eyes of the man I had vowed to love until death.

"Of course," I whispered, the once-certain contract of our marriage now feeling like a cheap ledger soaked in water, its ink blurring and running, bleeding into a meaningless stain as Chloe's naive advice echoed violently in my head.

The next morning, I carried those white roses with me into the syndicate boardroom, their cloying scent a bitter reminder of the truth I was not yet ready to unleash.

The heavy mahogany doors of the syndicate boardroom closed with a definitive, vault-like thud.

The air inside was thick with the acrid tang of cigar smoke and the collective ego of a dozen high-ranking Made Men.

I stood at the head of the long table, the stark glare of the projector illuminating the meticulous financial laundering route I had spent three sleepless weeks building.

It was a flawless system, designed to wash millions through a network of international real estate without leaving a single digital footprint.

Dante sat at the opposite end of the table, his posture deceptively relaxed, his dark eyes fixed on me with a chilling emptiness.

"It is flashy and hollow," Dante said, his voice cutting through the silence like a physical blow.

The entire room stiffened, the men holding their breath.

"The structure is solid," I countered, my tone held perfectly even despite the sudden, frantic pulse against my ribs. "It mitigates the risk of federal oversight by seventy percent."

Dante let out a low, mocking laugh that made the men around him shift uncomfortably in their leather chairs.

"It is a vanity project," he dismissed, waving his hand in the air as if to brush away an insect. "We are not running a charity for your ego. The proposal is denied."

He let the silence stretch before adding, "Focus on the charity galas, Siena. Leave the logistics to the Capos."

He humiliated me in front of my peers, stripping away my authority with casual cruelty.

As my fingertips touched the edge of the folder, the paper, stiff and unforgiving, sliced a thin line across my index finger. I watched a single bead of blood well to the surface—a single drop, staining the white paper—before I gathered the files into my arms.

I did not wipe it away.