Chapter 2 - THE RECKONING IN THE STOREROOM
The silence in the cramped storeroom was suffocating, smelling of canned tomatoes and floor wax. Damiano’s eyes, the color of a winter storm, bored into mine. He didn't blink. He didn't move. He just waited for the answer that would shatter my reality.
“Yes,” I whispered.
The word dropped like a stone into a bottomless well. Damiano didn't shout. He didn't reach for me. Instead, he took a slow, measured step back, as if I had struck him. For a man who controlled half the Eastern Seaboard’s underworld, this was the first time I had ever seen him physically reeling.
"Six years, Sienna," his voice was a dangerous rasp, barely audible over the hum of the diner's ancient refrigerator. "You let me believe you were dead. You let me bury an empty casket, while my son—my blood—was living in a diner on the edge of nowhere."
"I did it to keep him alive!" I shot back, the fear instantly giving way to the fierce, primal instinct of a mother. "Your enemies were circling, Damiano. The Vieri family had already put a hit out on me. If I had stayed, Nico would have been born into a warzone. Or worse, he wouldn't have been born at all."
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His jaw clenched, a muscle feathering near his temple. He knew I was right, even if his pride wouldn't let him admit it. Before he could speak, the diner's front bell jingled, but it wasn't the usual cheerful chime. It was followed by the heavy, synchronized thud of boots. Damiano’s entire demeanor shifted instantly from a wounded father to an apex predator. He drew a suppressed Sig Sauer from his dark wool coat with terrifying fluidity.
"We aren't done with this," he murmured, his eyes locking onto the swinging kitchen door. "But right now, you need to grab our son and run."
