Chapter 3
"I promise," she whispered, her chest tightening with fear for him. "Please... be careful. He's your underboss."
"This is my fortress," Tazio said, a cold, arrogant smirk touching the edge of his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "In Amalfi, the Don commands respect, but I command the stone and the sea. Go."
He kissed her forehead—a hard, brief seal of possession—and then turned away, walking toward the grand salon without looking back.
Dario waited by the terrace door, gesturing with a stiff, polite bow. "Signorina. This way, please."
Sienna gathered the heavy silk train of her dress and followed the lieutenant through the palatial corridors.
The villa was a maze of vaulted ceilings, centuries-old frescoes, and modern electronic security panels. Every corner she turned, she saw men in dark suits standing vigil, automatic weapons resting against their tactical vests. They had looked like guardians before; now, with Donato’s shadow descending upon the house, they looked like soldiers preparing for a siege.
When they reached the third floor, Dario opened the heavy, soundproofed door to the master suite. The room was breathtaking—a panoramic glass wall overlooked the dark sea, an expansive king-sized bed dominated the center, and a crackling fireplace cast long, dancing shadows across the mahogany floorboards.
"You have everything you need here, Signorina," Dario said, his hand resting on the heavy brass door handle. "Room service is shut down until the Don departs. The intercom is disabled for security. Do not try the doors; they are deadbolted from the central security console."
"Dario," Sienna called out before he could pull the door shut.
The lieutenant paused, his dark eyes meeting hers with blank professional courtesy.
"The yacht," she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it. "The men who were on board with Tazio... were they really Donato's cousins?"
A strange, imperceptible flicker passed over Dario's scarred face. It was gone so quickly Sienna wondered if she had imagined it.
"They were men of the family, Signorina," Dario replied smoothly. "And now they are fish food. Rest well."
The heavy door clicked shut.
A moment later, a distinct, heavy electronic whine echoed through the jambs as the magnetic deadbolts engaged.
*Clack. Clack.*
Sienna stood alone in the center of the vast, luxurious room.
The silence inside was absolute, muffled by layers of acoustic insulation and triple-paned bulletproof glass. She walked slowly toward the panoramic window, her fingers coming up to touch the cold sapphire hanging at her throat.
Down below, the winding cliffside driveway was illuminated by sweeping twin beams of xenon headlights. Three black SUVs crawled up the hairpin turns, their engines roaring faintly through the limestone foundations of the villa.
They looked like black beetles scuttling toward a trap.
Or an execution.
Sienna pressed her palm against the cold glass. Her heart hammered against her ribs, full of dread for the man who was down there standing between her and a mafia tribunal. She felt small, utterly helpless, and entirely indebted to him.
*He’s doing this for you,* she told herself, watching the lead SUV come to a halt in the courtyard below, where Tazio stood illuminated by the exterior floodlights, tall, solitary, and magnificent. *He’s risking his empire to keep you safe.*
She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the glass, praying to the saints of the sea to protect him.
She did not notice the faint, steady pulse of a pinhole camera nestled behind the ornate molding of the ceiling cornice directly above her bed, its tiny infrared sensor glowing crimson in the gloom, tracking every shudder of her breath.
The lock on the master suite did not stay engaged all night.
At precisely eight o'clock, the heavy electronic mechanisms buzzed and clicked back into their recesses. The door parted with a whisper of oiled hinges, framing Tazio against the corridor light.
He had changed out of his earlier suit. Now he wore formal evening black—a charcoal jacket of brushed wool, an open-collared silk shirt, and no tie, looking like an emperor holding court on the brink of an execution. His hair was freshly combed back from his temples, still damp at the edges, and the faint scent of cedarwood, gunpowder, and cold sea air clung to him like a second skin.
He stepped inside, his eyes immediately finding Sienna where she sat on the edge of the velvet settee. The relief in his face was swift, almost feral, softening only when his boots hit the edge of the carpet.
"He wants to see you," Tazio said.
Sienna stood up, smoothing the slate-blue silk over her thighs. "Donato?"
"He knows you are in the villa. My men couldn't hide the cook preparing a second plate, nor the medical supplies Dario brought up from the dispensary last week." Tazio crossed the distance between them with quiet, predatory strides. He stopped inches away, his knuckles coming up to trace the line of her throat, right where her pulse kicked against his fingertip. "He is an old dog who smells blood even when the stone has been scrubbed twice. He demanded to toast the girl who fished his favorite nephew out of the foam."
"Nephew?" Sienna echoed, her brows knitting. "You said the crew were his cousins."
Tazio’s thumb paused over her jugular. The pressure increased by an imperceptible fraction—just enough to feel the cold authority beneath his velvet manner.
"Distantly. Gianni was his sister's third son. In Donato’s head, everyone who carries his blood is an extension of his own pride." He dropped his hand, sliding it down her arm until his fingers locked firmly between hers, intertwining them with a grip that left no room for separation. "You will sit at my right hand. You will eat, you will smile, and you will say nothing about the salvage operations. If he asks about the water, you tell him the squall was black, the current was impossible, and you saw nothing except me."
"Tazio, I know how to speak to harbor men."
"Donato is not a harbor man. He is a butcher who happens to own three shipping terminals." His gaze burned into hers, dark and magnetic, pulling the oxygen straight from her chest. "Look at me, Sienna."
She raised her chin, meeting the black fire in his eyes.
"You speak when I permit you to speak. If he presses you, you look at your plate and let me answer. One wrong syllable about what you saw floating in the channel, and Donato will declare this entire estate a crime scene under syndicate law. Do you understand me?"
The raw urgency in his voice sent a cold ripple through her stomach. She nodded slowly. "I understand."
"Good." He lifted her trapped hand to his mouth, kissing the center of her palm, his lips lingering against the tender skin until the heat sank deep into her bones. "Remember who keeps you safe. Remember whose house this is."
***
The private dining room on the lower terrace was carved directly out of the coastal limestone, flanked on one side by an arched colonnade that looked out into the pitch-black abyss of the Gulf.
The salt mist drifted in through the open stone arches, mingling with the heavy odors of roasted rosemary veal, aged Chianti, and cigar smoke.
