The Mafia King of Philadelphia: From witness to his doted wife

If Sienna exposed him, the law would not find Konstantin. It would find Helena. Her mother would go down for all of it, for twenty years of killing and stealing she had been forced to sign her name to. Sienna would be handing her to a cell with her own two hands. I cannot do that. I will not.

And there was more. Helena was the only one who could reach the trust fund. The Don wanted it badly, and Sienna did not know why. It made everything feel stranger, like a puzzle with pieces that did not fit.

She tried another way. If the plan to expose him was dead, maybe she could stop his money. She was good with computers. She could break into his accounts and freeze them and starve him.

But even as she thought it, she knew it was foolish.

A man like Don Konstantin did not keep his fortune in banks. He kept it in vaults and gold and gemstones, in rooms like the one he had shown her today. In hidden places, behind doors with no handles. There was nothing to hack and nothing to freeze.

So what do I have? The question circled in her head like a bird that could not find a window.

The fast heartbeat. The secret in her blood. The mother she could not save. The husband she could not free. The father who was not a father. She had no plan at all. The door handle turned.

Sienna sat up so fast that the room spun.

Her hand flew to her side, to a place where a weapon would have been, if she had one. Her heart slammed. The door was opening, and she could not see who it was, and her whole body had gone cold.

”It’s me.” Viktor stepped in sideways, carrying a tray in both hands. He stopped when he saw her face.

”It is only me,” he said gently. ”I am sorry. I should have knocked.” Sienna put her hand over her chest. She let out a long, shaky breath.

”It’s fine.”

”It is not fine.” He set the tray on the small table, carefully, and crossed to her. He looked at her pale face and the sweat at her hairline, and a muscle moved in his jaw. But he did not say what he saw. He only said, ”I brought food.”

He gestured at the tray. There was a bowl of soup, warm bread, a small plate of rice and chicken, and a glass of water.

”Do not worry,” he said. ”I supervised everything. I watched them cook it. I carried it myself. It is safe to eat.”

It was such a small thing to say. But it was the kind of small thing only a husband in a house like this would have to say, and it made her throat tight.

”Thank you,” she said. She sat at the table and picked up the spoon.

Her stomach clenched at the smell. She ignored it. She took a sip of the soup and made herself swallow, then took another.

I need strength, she thought. Tonight is going to be long. I need to stand. I need to smile. She had a feeling that whatever waited downstairs at that dinner was worse than anything she had seen so far.

So she ate.

It was not easy. Every bite was a small fight. The soup was fine, but the chicken was heavy, and when she tried a piece, her stomach rolled over hard. She set down her fork and pressed her lips together until the wave passed.

Then, quietly, she began pushing things to the side of the plate. The chicken. The rice. The sauce. She kept the bread and the broth, the plain things, the ones her body would let her have.

Viktor sat across from her. He did not say a word.

He watched every move she made. He watched her hand tremble when she lifted the glass. He watched her jaw clench and release. He noticed what she left and what she took, and she knew he was noticing.

She did not look up. If she did, she would have to explain, and she did not know how.

He did not push her. He only watched, quiet and steady, like a man guarding something precious.

Someone knocked. Two short raps, polite and gentle. ”Come in,” Viktor said.

The door opened. Helena walked in first, and she had put herself back together. Her hair was neat and her face was composed. Behind her came a maid in a gray dress, pushing a tall rolling rack on squeaky wheels.

”Katty, my dear,” Helena said, in her soft, careful voice. The voice she used when someone might be listening. ”Your father sent these. For tonight.”

The maid stopped and stepped back with her eyes lowered. On the rack hung a row of gowns. All of them were white.

They were long and shining, made of silk and lace and soft chiffon. Some had beaded necks. Some had trains. Under each one sat a velvet tray of jewelry: pearls, diamonds, silver chains that sparkled under the light. It was a bride’s closet, or a ghost’s.

White, Sienna thought. The Don’s color.

He wanted her to walk into that dinner dressed like him. Like his daughter. Like a thing that belonged to him, wrapped and ribboned and ready to be shown off.

She looked at the gowns for a long, silent moment.

Then she looked down at the plate of leftover chicken and rice and sauce on the table in front of her.

Her fingers curled around the edge of it. For one clear, delicious second, she imagined picking it up and tossing every bit of it onto that perfect white silk. ”Leave it there,” Helena said.

The maid stopped the rack in the middle of the room. The wheels gave one last squeak. ”You can go,” Helena added.

The maid nodded without a word. She bowed her head and backed out of the room, and the door clicked shut behind her. The gowns stayed where they were, white and shining and silent.

Helena turned to Viktor. ”Viktor. Can I talk to my daughter alone for a while?” Sienna lifted her head. She looked at her mother first, and then at Viktor.

He did not like it. She could see that. His eyes went from Helena to the door to the gowns, and his shoulders were tight. But he waited. He was waiting for her. Sienna gave a small nod.

”I will be outside,” Viktor said.

He crossed the room and bent down. His hand closed around hers and gave it one small squeeze, warm and steady. Then he let go and walked out. The door shut softly.