Chapter one - The Witness Sienna's POV

The night I saw him kill a man started out boring.

Fridays at Murphy’s always were. Same routine, same headaches, same faces. Too many drunks, too little cash. The jukebox in the corner hummed tired classic rock songs that sounded like they were being played underwater, and the floor was sticky from a week’s worth of spilled beer. The whole place smelled of cigarettes, sweat, and regret.

The regulars sat in their usual spots, nursing cheap whiskey like it was holy water. Their voices blended into a low, constant hum sometimes laughter, sometimes anger, always tinged with the ache of lives that had gone nowhere. I’d been behind the bar since five, and by the time the clock dragged past eleven, my sneakers were glued to the floor, my back ached, and my tips were fucking pathetic.

It was one of those nights that made me question every decision that had brought me here. Dropped classes. Bad relationships. A stubborn streak that made me too proud to run home to my mother. I told myself Murphy’s was just temporary, just a stopover while I figured out something better. But nights like this made that feel like a lie.

I was wiping down the bar, wishing I could fast forward to closing time, when the door opened.

And Luca Romano walked in like he owned the place.

He wasn’t the type to blend into a crowd. He didn’t even try. He was tall, broad shouldered, devastatingly handsome in a way that made my stomach twist. Dressed in black from head to toe, expensive without looking like he cared. The kind of man who didn’t need to announce his presence he carried it with him, pressing against the room like a storm rolling in.

Everyone noticed. Even the drunks who could barely lift their heads stirred when he stepped inside.

My chest tightened. He’d been in Murphy’s once before, weeks ago, just for a drink. Even then, he had made me nervous as hell. Tonight, he wasn’t alone.

Two men followed him inside. Older. Harder. Their eyes sharp and mean, the kind of eyes that looked through people and measured them by the weight of their usefulness. They carried violence the way most men carried wallets easily, naturally, always ready.

Luca’s gaze swept the room, cool and detached, until it landed on me behind the bar. And there it was again that unreadable half smile I remembered from last time. Like he knew something I didn’t. Like he was daring me to look away.

I didn’t.

Whiskey, he said when he reached the bar. His voice was low, smooth, dangerous in the way fire is dangerous. You want to touch it even though you know you’ll burn.

I poured without speaking, but my hands trembled slightly. He watched me the entire time, and it felt like he was weighing every movement, every breath.

The two men with him slid into a booth in the back, settling in like shadows that had found their corner. Luca didn’t join them. He stayed at the bar, sipping his drink slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.

Minutes dragged, thick with tension. The jukebox played on, the regulars talked, but none of it felt real anymore. I forced myself to focus on my other customers refilling a beer, wiping a spill, offering a fake smile but the truth was, I could feel Luca’s gaze like gravity, pulling at me no matter how hard I resisted.

Then the door opened again.

Another man stepped inside. This one was different. Nervous energy rolled off him in waves, his forehead shining with sweat despite the cool air. He scanned the room like prey searching for predators and found them. His gaze snagged on the booth in the back, where Luca’s men waited.

Something inside me whispered, Don’t watch.

But I did.

The man walked straight toward the booth. He muttered something too low for me to catch, voice cracking like it had been wrung dry. One of Luca’s men stood, grabbed him by the collar, and shoved him into the seat.

My stomach dropped. My chest tightened. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

I turned away, stacking glasses, wiping the counter, pretending not to see. Pretending to be just another bartender in a bar where nothing mattered. But I couldn’t stop watching out of the corner of my eye.

Luca finally moved. He set his glass down and crossed the room with calm, measured steps. No hurry, no hesitation. The kind of walk that said he was always in control. Everyone else seemed to shrink into themselves as he passed, their shoulders hunching, eyes dropping. Pretending not to see. Pretending not to exist.

He slid into the booth across from the nervous man. For a long moment, no one spoke. Just a cold silence hanging heavy over the room. Then Luca leaned forward, speaking low. Too quiet for me to hear.

The man shook his head violently. His hands trembled. Words spilled from his mouth, fragments I caught between the jukebox and the hum of voices money, promise, please.

And then, like lightning splitting the sky, Luca pulled a gun from his jacket.

My breath caught.

He pressed the barrel against the man’s chest, steady and sure. The bar around me blurred. The jukebox, the laughter, the clink of glasses all of it faded until there was only Luca’s steady hand and his finger resting on the trigger.

The man begged. Desperate words tumbled out, choked and frantic. He promised, pleaded, bargained. Luca didn’t blink. His expression didn’t waver. One second. Then two.

And then he pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening, sharp and final. The man jerked as the bullet tore through him, blood blooming across his shirt like a violent flower. His body slumped against the booth, lifeless before he even finished exhaling.

I clapped a hand over my mouth, but a gasp escaped anyway. My knees weakened. My heart slammed so hard I thought it might burst.

I had just watched a man die. Again.

And this time, the killer looked up.

Luca’s eyes locked on mine across the bar cold, dark, unwavering.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. His stare pinned me in place, like a butterfly to glass. Like he already knew I’d seen too much. Like my fate had just been sealed with that single bullet.

He didn’t look away. Not when his men slid out of the booth. Not when they dragged the body toward the back door like it was nothing but garbage to be disposed of. Not even when blood smeared the floor in their wake.

He just sat there, gun still in his hand, and studied me.

I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. But I did neither. I stood frozen, my hand pressed against my lips, my eyes wide with horror.

And Luca Romano smiled.

Not kindly. Not apologetically. But with a slow, deliberate curve of his mouth that told me everything I needed to know. He wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t ashamed. He wanted me to see.

And in that moment, I realized something terrifying.

I wasn’t just a bartender who’d witnessed a crime.

I was his witness.