From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 33

**Chapter 6**

As Sienna observed Dante’s gradual unraveling, she struggled to suppress a smirk by biting down on the inside of her cheek.

That insufferable woman was finally out of the equation.

Now, this man—Dante, the Boss’s trusted lieutenant, the one poised to take the reins of the entire operation—was entirely within her grasp.

Once she secured that ring on her finger, every miserable soul who had ever looked down on her would be forced to kiss her boots.

However, the high of her perceived victory came crashing down with alarming speed.

The loss of Vesper didn’t make Dante turn toward her; instead, it shattered him completely.

He transformed from a sharp-minded strategist into a mere shadow of himself, barely able to function. Mistakes began to slip through his fingers like sand.

A routine hit went awry when he zoned out in the middle of the job. The target managed to get a shot off before succumbing, nearly taking Dante’s head with him.

The Boss, clearly frustrated, pulled him off rotation, delivering a stern ultimatum: he was not to return until he had his life back in order.

That was when the bottles began to appear.

Top-shelf liquor was strewn everywhere, turning the living room into a chaotic display reminiscent of a liquor store explosion. The entire place reeked of stale alcohol, a pungent reminder of a dive bar on a dreary Sunday morning.

Dante abandoned his grooming habits, allowing his stubble to grow wild and his clothes to become a permanent fixture of neglect. Sienna’s lovingly prepared meals sat untouched on the counter, growing cold as he drowned his sorrows in drink.

One fateful night, the situation reached a new low. He vomited all over the floor, right in front of her.

Sienna swallowed hard, choking back the bile that threatened to rise in her throat. She knelt down, holding her breath as she scrubbed the mess away, playing the role of the dutiful housewife to perfection.

Surely, he would notice her efforts. He would express some semblance of gratitude.

But he barely acknowledged her presence.

When he passed out, sprawled across the couch like a discarded rag, he would mumble the same heartbreaking refrain each time.

“Vesper… baby, come back… I’m sorry…”

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