I'm holed up in my office at Marcello Tower, city lights twinkling through the windows like they're mocking my mood. My driver's radio crackles on the desk, cutting through the quiet. "Mr. Marcello, we got a hit," Tony's voice says, low and edgy. "Miss Alverez is at Marlowe's Bar, hammered. Looks like hell."
My hand freezes on the dossier I'm flipping through, more dirt on Ricardo Alverez, Sienna's old man. Sienna, drunk and alone after that wedding trainwreck? Something twists in my chest, sharp and unfamiliar. I'm supposed to be playing her, not giving a damn. But I snatch my coat and head for the elevator, barking into the radio, "Be out front in five. We're hitting Marlowe's."
Tony's got the black SUV idling when I step outside, jaw tight as a drum. "How bad's she lookin'?" I ask, sliding into the backseat as he peels into traffic.
"Rough," he says, catching my eye in the rearview. "Bartender tipped off one of our guys. She's a mess, crying, can't stand straight. Paparazzi are sniffing around like dogs."
I curse under my breath, low and mean. Sienna's my ticket to gutting Ricardo, but picturing her broken, out in the open like that, it's messing with me. "Floor it," I tell Tony. He nods, and the city streaks by in a blur.
Marlowe's is a dump, all dim lights and floors sticky with God-knows-what, packed with Velancia's bottom-feeders. I step inside, my suit screaming "outsider" among the leather jackets and cheap aftershave. The place stinks of beer and bad choices. I spot Sienna at the bar, slumped like a ragdoll, dark hair spilling over her face. Her dress, some plain thing, not that wedding gown, is wrinkled to hell, lipstick smeared from crying. The Alverez heiress, looking like she got dragged through the gutter.
Some jackass in a flannel's leaning into her, sneering. "Yo, princess, what's a fancy chick like you doin' in a place like this?" She flinches, clutching an empty glass, but doesn't bite back. My blood's boiling. I shove through the crowd, slamming my shoulder into Flannel Guy hard enough to knock him off balance.
"Back the hell off," I growl, voice cold as ice. He glares but scrambles away, muttering crap under his breath. I turn to Sienna, softening my tone. "Sienna, it's Damien Marcello. I'm gettin' you outta here."
Her head snaps up, hazel eyes glassy but sharp, like she's still got some fight left. "You," she slurs, jabbing a shaky finger at me. "What, you here to rub it in?"
I shake my head, slipping an arm around her to keep her upright. "Ain't about that. C'mon, let's move." She sways, nearly eating the floor, and I catch her, ignoring the gawkers. The bartender, a scrawny dude with a beard, gives me a nod, like he's glad someone's handling her. I steer her toward the door, shielding her from the crowd. Outside, camera flashes hit like gunfire, paparazzi, circling like sharks. I pull her close, draping my coat over her to block their shots.
Tony's got the SUV ready at the curb. I ease Sienna into the backseat, her weight heavy against me. She mumbles something, head lolling like she's half-gone. I slide in beside her, and Tony slams the door, cutting off the camera glare. "Where to, boss?" he asks, firing up the engine.
"My penthouse," I say, voice tight. It's the only place those vultures won't get to her, no reporters, no Ricardo. Tony nods and guns it. Sienna's slumped against the window, breath ragged. I should be cold about this, she's a tool, a way to get at her dad. But seeing her like this, all fragile and torn up, it's screwing with my head. I'm supposed to stay detached, but she's making that impossible.
I pull out my phone, shoot a text to Julian: Found Sienna. She's with me. Check the estate, something's fishy. He pings back: On it. Watch yourself, Damien. I pocket the phone, eyes on Sienna. She's shivering, arms wrapped around herself like she's holding it together by a thread. I grab a blanket from the seat pocket, drape it over her, careful not to spook her.
"Why you doin' this?" she mumbles, voice so soft I barely catch it. "You don't even know me."
I freeze, scrambling for something that ain't a lie. "'Cause you don't deserve this," I say, and it's too damn honest. She looks at me, eyes clearing for a second, then shuts them, leaning back.
We're halfway to the penthouse when my phone buzzes, Marcus Vellani. I scowl but pick up, keeping my voice low so I don't wake Sienna. "The hell you want, Marcus?"
"Just checkin' in," he says, all slick like he's selling something. "Heard about that Alverez wedding fiasco. Hell of a show. You wouldn't know where Sienna's at, would ya?"
My grip on the phone tightens. "Stay outta it," I snap. "She ain't your problem."
He laughs, cold and sharp. "Oh, she's everybody's problem. Ricardo's slippin', and Sienna's the weak link. Be smart, Damien, hand her over before it gets ugly."
"Threaten me again, and you're done," I say, voice like steel. I hang up, jaw clenched so hard it hurts. Marcus is circling, and I don't trust that snake one bit. I text Julian: Marcus is poking around Sienna. Dig into his moves, pronto.
Sienna stirs, her hand brushing mine. "Who was that?" she mumbles, eyes half-open, glassy.
"Nobody," I say, softening up. "Rest, Sienna. You're okay." She nods, head dropping back. Okay. What a load of crap. I'm keeping her safe, but for what? To use her against Ricardo? Or 'cause I can't just leave her like this?
At the penthouse, I carry Sienna inside, her weight light as a feather. The elevator hums to the top floor, and I lay her on the guest room bed, pulling the blanket up. She's out cold, breathing all uneven. I step back, hands balled into fists. I should bounce, let her sleep it off, but I'm glued, watching her. The heiress who's supposed to be my pawn looks so damn small, so real. It's throwing me off big time.
My phone buzzes, Clara Vasquez. I answer, keeping it quiet. "Clara, what's up?"
"Where's Sienna?" she snaps, voice sharp like a blade. "She's not at the estate, and the cameras went dark. I heard her, Damien, she sounded scared."
"She's with me," I say. "Safe, at my place. What went down at the estate?"
Clara pauses, like she's weighing her words. "Caught her on a security feed, backing away from someone in the east wing. Then it cut out. I'm thinking Ricardo's tied to it, or someone close."
My blood goes cold. "I'm keeping her here," I say. "Figure out who it was, Clara. And watch your own back." I hang up, mind racing. Someone's gunning for Sienna, and it's not just Ricardo's shadow I'm seeing.
I'm in the living room, pouring a coffee, when Sienna stumbles out, dress all crumpled, eyes red and puffy. "Where am I?" she croaks, voice like she's been screaming.
"My penthouse," I say, setting the cup down. "You were in rough shape. Brought you here to keep you out of trouble."
She laughs, all bitter and shaky. "Trouble? After today? Trouble's my new best friend." She sways, and I grab her arm, easing her onto the couch.
"Sit," I say, handing her a glass of water. "What happened, Sienna? After the wedding?"
She takes the glass, hands trembling like leaves. "Went back to the estate. Father was… pissed. Called me a disgrace." Her voice cracks, and she looks away, like she's ashamed. "Then someone came at me, in the east wing. I bolted, ended up at that bar… don't even know how."
My jaw locks tight. "Was it Ricardo?"
She shakes her head, tears spilling. "Didn't see their face. But they knew me, Damien. Wanted me gone." She grabs my hand, grip desperate. "Thought I was dead."
Her words hit like a fist. Someone close, Ricardo, Valentina, maybe Marcus, tried to take her out. My hand tightens around hers, something solidifying in me. "You're staying here," I say. "Nobody's touching you. Not while I'm breathing."
She looks at me, eyes searching mine, and for a second, I forget my whole damn plan, the revenge, all of it. It's just her, and I'm in way too deep.