The Broken Artist's Spectacular Mafia Comeback

Sienna POV:

A week passes in a thick, suffocating silence.

When Maria calls me on a secure line on Thursday, she extends an invitation to the syndicate's fourth-anniversary banquet for Victor's front company.

"You don't have to come," Maria says, her voice tight with worry. "Everyone will understand if you—"

"I'll be there," I cut her off. "Send me the details."

I hear her hesitation, the question she doesn't dare ask. Why would you walk into that room? But Maria doesn't understand. In this world, to disappear is to show weakness—to bleed in water filled with sharks. If I hide, Victor wins. If I hide, Gia wins. I did not spend four years building an empire to slink away like a coward.

I decide to attend. To hide is to show weakness—to bleed in water filled with sharks.

Armoring myself in a severe black dress and dark stilettos, I arrive at The Bellarosa Hotel and step into the VIP banquet hall.

The room is filled with made men, Enforcers, and Associates. The air hums with the low murmur of deals being made and loyalties being tested. These gatherings are never just celebrations—they are performances, and everyone is watching.

I walk toward the Capo table at the front of the room, only to be directed by a gesture to seat number three.

I halt.

Gia is in seat number two—the chair reserved by tradition for the Capo's wife.

She is sitting intimately close to Victor, using her fork to deftly remove the grilled onions from his meal.

I look at her dress, and the familiar silk of the designer stings my eyes; the fine hairs on my nape rise, and the fabric against my skin turns damp and cold. It is a new release from the exact same series I favor. She is not just sitting in my chair. She is wearing my armor.

She has been studying me. She knows my designers, my seat, my place. She is trying to become me—or replace me. I'm not sure which is more pathetic.

Gia looks up and sees me standing there. She rises, her eyes widening as she brings a hand to her mouth.

"Oh my god, Sienna," she says, her voice pitched to carry to the surrounding tables. "I am so sorry. I forgot to change seats. We were just discussing business."

She does not move to vacate the chair.

Victor looks at me with a tired, worn expression. His eyes sweep over me the way one regards an inconvenience—a delayed shipment, a broken elevator.

"Just sit in seat number three, Sienna," he says, rubbing his temples. "Do not make a scene."

I pull out chair number three and sit, saying nothing.

My silence freezes the entire table.

The men around us fall quiet and turn their attention to their plates.

I can feel their eyes on me—curiosity, pity, calculation. They are weighing my silence, trying to determine if I am weak or if I am dangerous. Let them wonder.

When the time for toasts arrives, a rival lieutenant approaches with a bottle of chilled vodka.

He pours a heavy glass and holds it out to Victor.

Gia suddenly stands and physically blocks the glass, placing a hand on Victor's chest.

"I am so sorry," she tells the lieutenant with a sweet, saccharine smile. "Victor's stomach cannot handle cold liquor tonight. I will drink it for him."

The men at the table murmur their approval at her loyalty.

Loyalty. They call it loyalty. I call it a performance by a woman who has memorized my husband's schedule but not his medical history.

I look at the glass of vodka. This morning, Maria sent me a secure text: Victor had contracted a blood infection and was on a heavy cycle of specialized antibiotics.

I pick up my own glass of water and tip it onto the pristine white tablecloth.

The water spreads in a dark, spreading stain. Everyone stops and stares.

"He does not have a weak stomach," I say, my voice cutting through the room, thin and sharp as a shard of ice. "He is on a course of antibiotics for a blood infection. If he mixes it with alcohol, his liver will fail."

The table goes dead silent.

I look directly at Gia, watching the color recede from her face.

"How does an Associate who doesn't know basic medical facts end up so eager to play the understudy?" I ask, tilting my head.

Gia's lower lip trembles, and tears form in her eyes.

Victor slams his hand on the table and stands, moving to shield Gia with his body.

"Are you finished with this tantrum?" he shouts, his jaw clenched. "You are embarrassing me. She was trying to help."

Trying to help. I look at the man shielding a woman who just tried to poison him—whether through ignorance or intention, I don't know and I no longer care—and I realize something with perfect clarity: Victor would rather die at Gia's hand than be saved by mine.

I look at the man I spent four years building.

He is protecting another woman from my words—from the truth.

Without breaking my gaze, I reach for my left hand.

I slide the heavy diamond wedding ring from my finger and toss it across the table.

It lands with a sharp clink on Victor's plate, coming to rest beside the discarded onions.

"Enjoy your single life, Victor," I say.

I turn and walk away from the table.

I hear Gia begin to sob behind me, crying out Victor's name.

I keep walking toward the heavy double doors of the banquet hall, a part of me listening for the sound of his footsteps.

They do not come.

The only sound is the string music playing from the speakers. And beneath it, the whisper of a hundred hushed conversations, already beginning to dissect what they just witnessed. By morning, the entire syndicate will know: Victor's wife has declared war.

And somewhere in this city, in a penthouse I've only seen in photographs, Don Dante will receive a report of tonight's events. I wonder what the man who never forgets will make of a Capo who has forgotten his own wife.