Chapter 8 - The East Wing Transition
Moving her few meager belongings from the cramped fourth-floor staff dormitory to the sprawling, sunlit suites of the east wing felt like stepping into an entirely different dimension.
The east wing was a world of high vaulted ceilings, French doors opening onto private stone balconies overlooking the Hudson River, and walls lined with original oil paintings and rare first-edition books.
Mrs. Doyle had supervised the transition with a face like thunder, clearly disapproving of the unprecedented promotion, but she dared not utter a single word of complaint. The execution of Marco Vitali had sent a shockwave through the Marchetti estate that had silenced every whispering tongue in the household.
By Tuesday afternoon, Sienna sat behind a sleek mahogany partner's desk in Dante’s private study, wearing a sharp, tailored black skirt and a white silk blouse that Dante had instructed a private stylist to deliver from Fifth Avenue.
She was reviewing the domestic payroll ledgers—the real ledgers, audited and corrected by Silas Vance—when the heavy study door opened.
Dante walked in, carrying a leather briefcase and a takeout container from a high-end Italian restaurant in Manhattan.
"Working hard?" he asked, tossing his briefcase onto the leather sofa.
"I'm just cross-referencing the catering expenses for the winter gala," Sienna said, looking up with a small smile. "Mrs. Doyle was charging the syndicate twenty dollars a pound for imported Parmigiano-Reggiano. I found a local distributor in Little Italy that sells it for half."
Dante chuckled, walking over to her desk and setting the Italian food container down. "You're going to bankrupt my criminal enterprise by saving money on cheese."
"Good. Maybe then you can find a legitimate line of work," she teased gently—a boldness she never would have imagined possessing two weeks ago.
Dante’s smile faded slightly, replaced by that intense, magnetic gaze that always made her pulse spike. He leaned his hips against the edge of the desk, looking down at her.
"Speaking of legitimate work," Dante said, his voice dropping lower. "Silas has been going through Marco's personal phone records. We found something interesting."
Sienna’s posture stiffened. "What?"
"Marco didn't act alone when he found out about your mother's medical bills," Dante said, watching her reaction closely. "He had help from someone in the administrative pool. Someone who flagged your file and tipped him off about your financial desperation."
Sienna’s blood ran cold. "Who?"
"Your former supervisor on the night shift," Dante said quietly. "Clara Jenkins. She's already packed her bags and fled to Florida, but Silas’s men caught up with her at the airport three hours ago. She's currently on a flight back to New Jersey for a little conversation in the basement."
Sienna looked down at her hands, the memory of those cold, hopeless nights scrubbing floors while her mother’s debts hung over her head rushing back. "Why would she do that? We shared a locker room for six months."
"Because in this world, people like Clara sell their neighbors for pocket change," Dante said, reaching out to cover her hand with his own. His skin was warm, steady, and grounding. "The rot is out, Sienna. Every last piece of it. The house is clean."
She turned her hand over, intertwining her fingers with his. The contrast was striking—her small, once-bruised hand resting inside the strong, calloused palm of the most feared man on the East Coast.
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"Thank you, Dante," she whispered.
"Don't thank me yet," he murmured, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "We haven't had dinner yet, and I intend to make sure you eat more than cold toast and black coffee tonight."
