The first rays of dawn crept through the nursery windows, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. Sienna sat in the rocking chair, her daughter asleep against her chest, both of them bathed in the soft morning light. She hadn't slept. Couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Marco's face, saw the blood spreading across his chest, saw the moment life left his body.
She'd killed a man.
The weight of it sat heavy in her chest, a constant pressure that made it hard for her to breathe. Her hands—the same hands that now cradled her newborn daughter with such tenderness had ended a life. The gun's recoil still echoed through her arms, phantom sensations that wouldn't fade.
But when she looked down at her baby, at that tiny perfect face, she knew she'd make the same choice again. And again. And again.
