“Do that,” I reply, my tone dry but leaving no room for refusal.
The nurse disappears down the hallway, her shoes squeaking against the tile. I rest a hand on Sienna’s shoulder, keeping herclose, even though she’s still trembling. She looks up at me, eyes bright with stubborn hope.
“Dad, she saved me,” she says softly. “Birdie pushed me out of the way. She got shot because ofme.”
Her words hit like a slow punch to the chest. I don’t show it, but it burns all the same.
“You’re alive,” I tell her. “That’s what matters.”
“I owe her everything,” she whispers.
So do I.
Before I can answer, the nurse returns.
“She’s awake,” she says. “But she’s groggy. You can see her, but only for a few minutes.”
Sienna turns those pleading eyes on me. “Will you come with me?”
I nod. “Go ahead, baby. I’ll be there in a moment.”
She rushes off before I can say anything else.
I stand there for a moment, watching her go down the hospital hallway, her steps uneven, shoulders tight with fear and grief. I should follow. I should say something. But the words choke somewhere between my chest and my throat.
My hands bury deeper into the pockets of my coat to keep from punching the nearest wall. The adrenaline is wearing off. What replaces it is worse. That cold, steady fury that settles low in my gut. The kind that demands answers and blood in equal measure.
My men handled the shooters. That much I know. Clean, efficient, controlled just as I trained them. But the questions remain, echoing like gunfire ricocheting off steel.
Who sent them? And why was my daughter the target?
I’ve spent Sienna’s whole life shielding her from this world. Separating the Don from the father. Keeping the darkness far from her light. I built an empire of boundaries around her. Made enemies bow before they even dared to look her way.
And yet tonight some bastard still came for her.
Why now?
What changed?
The fury settles deeper, rising like a tide.
Whoever orchestrated this didn’t just attack my blood. They declared war. And God help them because I will answer it.
Shaking my head, I follow the path Sienna took to her friend’s room. I’ve seen photos of her before laughing beside my daughter, holding some ridiculous coffee with a glitter-heart filter framing her face. A harmless college girl. Sweet. Soft. The kind of friend I approved of without ever having to think twice.
But seeing her like this stops me cold in the doorway.
She’s pale against the white sheets, the fluorescent lights draining what little color she has left. A thick bandage winds around her arm. A dark bruise blooms across her temple like an ink stain. For a moment, the room tilts around me because that could have been Sienna lying broken in that bed.
Then her blue eyes flutter open.
And everything in me goes very, very still.
She is nothing like my Sienna—nothing like the polished, elegant life I’ve built around my daughter. This girl is softness and curves and quiet fire. Shorter than I expected, full-figured in a way that makes the hospital gown struggle to hide a single thing. Even injured, even pale, she has curves that pull the eye—breasts that swell against thin fabric, a waist begging to be held, hips that could anchor a man.
Her hair is golden blond—real, not salon-spun. Her skin is delicate cream. Her lips a perfect cupid’s bow that looks made to be kissed. And God help me as her scent drifts toward me, I want to inhale her.
The reaction punches through me so fast, so hard, that I have to lock my jaw to keep it from showing. I shouldn’t feel this. Not here. Not now. Not about her.
