Sienna Romano
The world is a muffled roar. A series of moments that don’t connect. The scent of lilies, cloying and sweet, the smell of death trying to masquerade as beauty. The black fabric of a hundred different suits. The low murmur of voices offering condolences that sound like threats, like vultures circling.
My home is not my home anymore. It is a stage for a wake, filled with men who ate at my father’s table and are now measuring the drapes for his coffin.
Luca has not left my side. He is a silent, solid wall between me and the crushing weight of it all. He moves when I move. He stops when I stop. He has brought me three glasses of water and I have drunk none of them.
Grief is supposed to be a wave that pulls you under. I am not drowning. I am standing on the shore, the water up to my ankles, and everything is chillingly clear. My shock has sharpened into a lens. I see everything.
I see Antonio Falcone, my ‘uncle’, clasping the shoulder of a city councilman, his face a perfect mask of sorrow, but his eyes are calculating. They are scanning the room, taking inventory.
I see Silvio Rossi, one of my father’s oldest capos, whispering to his son, his hand covering his mouth. They are not sharing memories. They are plotting strategies.
And I see the women. The wives. Dressed in Chanel and Dior mourning wear. They look at me with pity. Real pity. It’s the most insulting thing I have felt all day. They see a poor, orphaned girl, left all alone. A tragic story to be whispered over brunch.
I have not cried. The tears are frozen somewhere deep inside me, a glacier of loss I don’t have time to explore.
“Sienna.”
The voice belongs to Lorenzo. The family consigliere. He has been at my father’s side since before I was born. His face is a roadmap of worry, each line etched deeper than it was two days ago.
“They are waiting for you,” he says. His voice is quiet, for my ears only. “In the study.”
I nod once. I hand my untouched water glass to Luca without looking at him.
“Stay at the door,” I tell him.
“Always,” he murmurs.
Lorenzo leads the way. The crowd parts for us. The whispers die as I pass, then flare up again in my wake. I keep my head high, my spine straight. My mother taught me how to walk into a room. She never taught me how to walk through the ruins of my own life.
The study door is closed. It has always been the heart of our empire. The one room I was never welcome in. My father’s sanctuary. Lorenzo opens it for me and I step inside.
The smell of old leather, books, and my father’s cigar smoke hits me. It is the ghost of him. For a second, my composure cracks. A tremor runs through me, so violent and fast I’m sure they can all see it.
They are all there. The five capos that made up my father’s inner circle. Silvio Rossi, with his cruel little mouth. Paolo Conti, old and wheezing. The two Genna brothers, thick as bricks and just as smart. And Antonio Falcone, who stands and pulls me into an embrace that makes my skin crawl.
“My dear girl,” he says, his voice thick with false emotion. “Such a tragedy. A terrible, terrible loss.”
I do not hug him back. I stand rigid in his arms until he is forced to release me. I do not offer them a seat. They are already seated in my father’s chairs, around my father’s table. In my father’s house.
I remain standing at the head of the table. Lorenzo takes his place at my side, a step behind me.
“Thank you for coming,” I say. My voice is steady. Colder than I expected.
Silvio Rossi leans forward, steepling his fingers. “We are here for you, Sienna. To ensure the family is secure in this difficult time. We must show a united front. Stability is everything.”
“My father and brothers have been dead for forty eight hours,” I reply, my eyes locking with his. “Is that enough time for stability to be a concern?”
The question hangs in the air. It’s a challenge. A small one, but a challenge nonetheless. He was expecting tears, not questions.
Lorenzo clears his throat. “What Silvio means to say is that our enemies will see this as a moment of weakness. We must present a clear line of succession.”
“The line of succession is dead,” I state, the words like shards of glass in my mouth.
“Which brings us to the matter at hand,” Antonio Falcone says, taking control. He always takes control. “The other families are watching. Our own men need leadership. The council of capos has discussed this at length.”
He pauses. For dramatic effect. He thinks he is a king on a stage. He is just a man in a suit.
“We have made a decision,” he continues. “It is the only logical course of action until things are settled.”
I wait. The silence in the room is a living thing. I can hear Paolo Conti’s labored breathing. I can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, counting down the seconds of my old life.
“Your cousin, Marco, has been recalled from Europe,” Silvio says. “He will be here within the week.”
Marco. My arrogant, swaggering pig of a cousin. A man whose greatest skill is ordering the most expensive champagne in a nightclub. The thought of him sitting in my father’s chair makes me feel physically ill.
“And until he arrives?” I ask, my voice dangerously soft.
Lorenzo is the one to deliver the final blow. He looks at the floor as he says it, and for that, I am almost grateful.
“The council has agreed that you will be the interim boss, Sienna.”
Interim. The word is a slap. A public declaration of my inadequacy.
Boss. A title they use as an insult, a placeholder name for a position they believe I could never truly hold.
“You will be the face of the family,” Antonio clarifies, his tone patronizing, as if explaining something to a child. “It shows continuity. The Romano name remains in place. Lorenzo will guide you on any necessary papers that need a signature.”
“And the actual decisions?” I ask.
“The council will handle all operational matters,” Silvio says smoothly. “You need not worry your pretty head about any of it. We will carry the burden until Marco is ready to take his rightful place.”
My pretty head.
A fire ignites in my chest. It is a clean, white hot rage. It burns away the fog of grief, the numbness, the shock. It burns away the porcelain doll they all see. It leaves behind something hard and sharp. Something they will not recognize until it is too late.
They see a figurehead. A puppet. A grieving little girl to be managed and placated until the real man arrives to take over.
They have just signed their own death warrants.
I look at each of them. One by one. I let them see the ice in my eyes. I want them to remember this moment later. I want them to look back and realize this is where they made their fatal mistake.
I give them a small, slow smile. It feels alien on my face.
“I understand,” I say.
Their relief is palpable. They shift in their chairs. They think they have handled me. They think the problem is solved. Antonio even smiles back, a benevolent uncle pleased with his compSiennant niece.
“Good,” he says. “We knew you would be sensible. You are your father’s daughter, after all.”
This is the second time someone has told me that today. They have no idea how right they are.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I say, my voice still even, still calm. “I have arrangements to make for my family’s funeral. Lorenzo, you will handle our guests.”
I turn and walk to the door without waiting for a reply. I do not look back. I can feel their eyes on me, their condescension following me out of the room. Luca is there, his hand on the doorknob, opening it for me as I approach.
He follows me down the silent hallway, away from the study, away from the noise of the wake. We walk to the conservatory at the back of the house, a glass room filled with my mother’s orchids. No one ever comes in here.
The silence is a relief. I walk to the center of the room and stop, staring at a white orchid in full, perfect bloom.
“They think I’m a child,” I say to the glass walls.
“Yes,” Luca says from behind me.
“A placeholder.”
“Yes.”
“They are putting my cousin in charge. Marco.” I say his name and the rage flares again, hot and bright.
I turn to face Luca. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are fixed on mine. He is waiting.
“They made me the interim boss,” I say.
A muscle in his jaw twitches. That is his only reaction.
“Interim means temporary,” I continue, thinking aloud. “They are giving me a title with no power. A crown with no kingdom. They expect me to sit in a chair and look sad until Marco gets off a plane.”
“That is their expectation,” he agrees.
I walk closer to him, until we are only a foot apart. “They are going to be very disappointed.”
For the first time, something flickers in his eyes. Respect.
“What are your orders?” he asks.
The question is simple. The implications are enormous. He is not asking Lorenzo. He is not waiting for the council or for Marco. He is asking me.
He sees me. He has always seen me.
“First,” I say, the plan already forming, a cold, clear structure in my mind. “We find out who did this. Not who pulled the triggers. Who gave the order. Who knew the routes. Who paid for the intel.”
“It was an inside job,” he states. It’s not a question.
“Nothing else is possible,” I confirm. “And that means one of the men in that room is a traitor. Maybe more than one.”
I look back at the perfect, white orchid. So beautiful. So delicate. So easily crushed.
“My father and my brothers are gone,” I whisper, the words a vow in the silent, glass room. “But the Romano family is not finished.”
I turn back to Luca, my bodyguard, my ghost, my only true ally.
“They wanted an interim boss. They’re about to get a queen.”
