She looked like a ghost.

A stunning, venom-laced ghost with blood on her hands and my mother’s pendant around her neck like a trophy.

“Sienna,” I said, my voice half-anger, half-heartbreak.

“You thought I was dead,” she replied with a tilt of her head, like we were just catching up over coffee and not standing on the bones of our family.

“You made me believe it.”

“No,” she said. “They did.”

Her gaze shifted to our father. Matteo. The man she once called ...