Sienna's POV
"What a rude jerk." I downed the rest of the wine in one gulp.
Oh, shit.
Who was paying for this?
I stared at the empty glass like it had personally betrayed me. Technically, he ordered it. He drank none of it. And then he just… left.
Of course he did.
I shifted in my seat, pretending to admire the architecture while calculating exactly how many seconds I could wait before slipping out and pretending this dinner had never happened.
Ten seconds.
Five.
Three.
I reached for my bag—
"Excuse me, Miss?"
I jolted so hard my knee almost collided with the table.
"The gentleman who was with you has already taken care of the bill," the waiter said with a polite smile.
I blinked. "He has?"
"Yes, ma'am. Would you like me to call a cab?"
"No," I blurted. "No, I… uh… I like buses."
He blinked. I blinked. We blinked together.
"Very well. Have a lovely evening."
---
The bus ride home felt surreal, like my body had stayed in the restaurant while my mind drifted somewhere several stops behind.
Every streetlight sliced through the dark with cruel accuracy, illuminating thoughts I didn't want to think—loneliness, exhaustion, dread.
By the time I reached my stop, the city felt hollow. Empty in a way that echoed inside my chest.
I walked barefoot, heels dangling from my fingers, mascara streaking down my cheeks like a map of my failures.
Finally, my apartment building.
I climbed the three flights of stairs, keys shaking in my hand as I unlocked the door.
I flicked the light switch.
Nothing.
Flicked it again.
Still nothing.
"Damn you, Mr. Ray!" My voice echoed in the darkness. "This is the third time this month!"
The landlord had cut my power.
Again.
I dropped my bag onto the worn couch and kicked the door shut behind me. Using my phone's flashlight, I made my way to the fridge and opened it.
An empty hum answered me.
Of course.
I shut the fridge and leaned against it, exhaling as my stomach growled.
This was my life.
The weight of it finally crushed me. I slid down to the cold floor, hugging my knees, and cried—ugly, shaking sobs that rattled my ribs and left me gasping for air.
---
The next morning, I went to the mall down the street for a few ingredients. I cooked when I got home, hoping a warm meal would settle something inside me.
I had barely eaten half when a sharp knock cut through the quiet.
I froze.
No. Not today.
I opened the door—and before I could slam it shut, they pushed through like they owned the place.
Big Moe and his boys.
My heart slammed against my ribs as they surveyed my apartment, their eyes lingering like they were deciding what to break first. I wanted to scream. Instead, I stood there with a stiff, ridiculous smile pasted on my face.
They took seats at my table like they'd been invited.
Moe glanced at the food. "This looks nice," he said, voice low.
He slammed his hand on the table. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot. I jumped, lips trembling before I could stop them.
"So you have money to eat," he roared, "but not to pay me back?"
My knees buckled. I dropped to the floor, words turning to dust in my throat.
"Please… don't hurt me. I'll pay you back," I whispered.
"Cut her left hand off," Moe said casually, blowing out cigar smoke.
One of the men cracked his knuckles loud enough to make my stomach flip. Another grabbed my wrist and slammed my hand flat on the table. A dagger—knife—something—glinted as it rose.
"Please! Please—" Hot tears blurred everything. My heartbeat roared in my ears.
"Make it quick," Moe snapped his fingers.
"I—I have some money!" I screamed as the axe arced higher. "Please! Wait!"
Moe leaned forward. "Some money?"
I nodded frantically. "Yes—please, don't cut my hand. Please."
He gave a small signal. The grip on my wrist loosened.
I scrambled across the room faster than I thought I could move. I dug into the corner where I kept the little I'd saved. My hands shook so hard the bills scattered across the floor.
I gathered them up quickly, sniffing so my snot didn't fall out, and placed the money on the table.
Moe raised an eyebrow. "That's all?"
"It's all," I whispered.
His boys counted in silence. "Eighty thousand."
My palms were so sweaty I kept rubbing them on my clothes, making it worse.
Moe's face hardened. "You have three days to complete it… or else—" His gaze dropped to my hands.
I hid them behind my back instinctively.
"It won't be only your hand."
"I'll complete it," I cried, bowing repeatedly. "Please—I will. Please."
They stood. The door slammed behind them.
Silence swallowed the apartment whole.
My legs gave out. I sank to the floor where I stood, palms pressed flat against the cold tiles as if the room were tilting. My breath shook in small, ragged pulls that wouldn't settle. The smell of cigar smoke clung to the air, thick and sour.
The dagger's shadow kept replaying in my mind—rising, falling, rising—until my stomach lurched.
My fingers wouldn't stop shaking. Every time I tried to close them, they twitched.
I curled my knees to my chest, resting my forehead on them. A cold sweat slid down my spine, making me shiver even though the room wasn't cold.
I didn't cry this time.
There wasn't anything left in me to spill.
Just the echo three days—beating out a rhythm in my chest I couldn't escape.
Three days.
Only three.