Freed (Conti Mafia Duet #2)

Chapter 1

Birdie

Lorenzo walks toward me through a haze of candlelight, his expression twisted with something between anger and grief.

“Cara… what have you done?”

His voice sounds wrong, echoing like it’s coming from the bottom of a well. I blink, confused, reaching for him even as he steps back.

“I… I don’t understand—”

A sudden, razor-sharp pain tears through my abdomen.

I gasp and look down.

Red blooms across the white dress I’m wearing, spreading in slow, horrifying petals. It drips down my legs, warm and thick, staining the floor beneath me.

“No,” I whisper, hands trembling as I reach toward the stain. “I—I didn’t—”

Another pain rips through me, this time in my shoulder, so sharp it feels like lightning crawling through bone. The world distorts, bending at the edges. Lorenzo’s face begins to blur, the room around us collapsing into darkness.

I jerk awake with a moan but the nightmare clings to me, thick and suffocating. I try to open my eyes as a rush of panic hits me so hard I can taste it. There’s something over my eyes—tight, suffocating, and blocking out everything. The darkness is absolute, pressing against me like a second skin.

My breath stutters. I don’t know where I am.

Oh God.

I force myself to breathe, even as nausea coils in my stomach. Bits and pieces slam back into place. Being in Lorenzo’s room. Being upset with him for some reason. And then… nothing. It’s like someone carved the night apart and took most of the pieces with them.

My throat tightens as fear curls icy fingers around my spine.

Somewhere close a voice speaks and someone answers. It’s two men and they’re unfamiliar. It takes me a second to realize why I can’t understand them.

They’re speaking Italian.

My blood runs cold. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who has me. But I do know one thing. Lorenzo Conti isn’t here to save me.

I make the mistake of whimpering. Everything goes silent. The kind of silence that means the wolves heard the rabbit. My breath catches. I can’t see anything, but I hear them shifting. They’re moving closer.

Panic spikes so hard it feels like my heartbeat rattles my skull. I try to scoot away from the sound, away from the presence but there’s nowhere to go.

Hard hands clamp around my arms.

I scream and the sound barely leaves my throat before something sharp drives into the side of my neck. Fire rips through me. My muscles seize. The world blurs.

And then—

Nothing.

I come to with a pounding headache that feels like someone wedged an axe behind my eyes. My tongue is coated with a bitter, chemical taste. My limbs feel heavy and wrong, like they’re filled with wet sand.

I force my eyes open and panic jolts through me when I realize I’m not blindfolded anymore, but the darkness around me is still too thick and unfamiliar.

My brain tries to latch onto something familiar. Something normal.

For a moment, I wonder if Sienna and I had another party. If we drank too much and I passed out on the floor or the couch like the world’s most irresponsible friend.

But the thought doesn’t land.

It feels… off. Wrong. Like a puzzle piece in the wrong box.

Why doesn’t that seem right?

Why does my chest hurt?

Why is the air so cold in this room?

Why does the room feel too big… and too empty and not like home at all?

And then, like the slow rise of a nightmare slipping back into my mind, the memories start to surface—

The sting at my neck…

A wave of nausea hits me so hard I swallow a cry. Because something happened. Something bad. And I still don’t know where I am.

Slowly, I force myself to sit. My head throbs and the room tilts, but I grit my teeth and stay upright.

I’m in some kind of storage space—cramped, cold, and smelling faintly of dust and aged wine.

Wooden crates filled with bottles are stacked to the ceiling, their labels written in a language I can’t focus on.

There’s a tiny window high on the wall, but no light comes through. At first I think it’s night, but when I stand—nearly stumbling as the floor sways beneath me—I realize the glass has been painted over. Purposefully. To keep me from seeing anything.

My heartbeat stutters.

I reach up, scrape my thumbnail across the glass. The paint flakes away in chalky curls and faint, soft light spills through the scratch I’ve made. I widen the gap until I can see outside.

And what I see makes no sense.

A narrow cobblestone street curls along a cliffside, flanked by white stone buildings that look impossibly old, weathered by centuries of sun and sea.

Their walls are chipped and uneven, shuttered windows opening to tiny iron balconies dripping with flowers.

Farther off, the soft roar of waves echoes up from somewhere below.

The sky is a pale watercolor blue, tinged gold at the edges, hinting at a sunrise soon. The air—not the air in the room, but the air out there—looks clean and warm, the kind that smells like salt and sun-baked limestone.

This isn’t Kansas City. Or Chicago. This isn’t anywhere I’ve ever been.

I don’t even see any cars. Just a single scooter parked against a stone archway, and laundry swaying gently between the buildings on a line overhead.

My pulse spikes.

Where am I?

The view is like something out of a postcard. Picturesque, old, breathtaking—a seaside town carved into cliffs, perched above turquoise water. A place I never chose to be.

Panic squeezes tight around my ribs.

Who brought me here?

And why?

Movement above me makes my entire body go rigid. Someone is up there. Someone who might know what happened to me… or someone who did it.

I can either stand here and wait or face it head on.

Neither option feels smart, but doing nothing feels worse.

My legs shake as I find the wooden staircase. Each step creaks under my weight, loud enough to announce me to whoever is upstairs. Nausea swirls hard and fast, but I force myself to keep moving. I need answers. I need to get out of here. I need to—

I reach the top and pause at the door. My heart stutters. If it’s locked, I’m trapped. My fingers twist the old knob.

It turns.

I almost cry in relief.

“Hello?” My voice cracks as I step into a narrow, dim hallway. “Is anyone there?”

An elderly woman appears at the far end, and we both jump, terrified of each other. She clutches her sweater with one hand and snaps something sharp in a language I don’t understand, waving her free hand as if shooing away a stray animal.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I don’t understand. Do you speak English?”

She doesn’t answer and disappears.

My pulse pounds in my ears. Is she calling someone? Someone dangerous? Someone who knows where I am?

She returns a moment later with a phone in one hand and a wooden broom in the other, held like she’s ready to swing it at my skull. She taps furiously on the screen, then slides the phone toward me across the floor never taking her eyes off me, broom raised between us.

Who are you?

My throat dries. My fingers tremble as I type back.

My name is Birdie. I think… I think someone drugged me. I don’t know where I am.

I slide the phone back toward her and sag against the wall as nausea claws up my throat. A wave of chills sweeps through me, so violent I can barely keep hold of myself.

The woman reads my message, her lined face pinching with worry or suspicion. It’s impossible to tell. She types again, slower this time, then slides the phone toward me with the broom still held defensively.

You’re in Polignano a Mare. I can feed you, but you can’t stay here.

I blink at the words.

Polignano a… what? Where even is that?

My stomach curls tighter as I type.

Do you know where I can find help? The US Embassy? A police station?

I push the phone back to her.

This time, she doesn’t type anything. Instead, she lifts the phone and dials someone. Her voice rises, urgent and fast, the words spilling out in Italian, if that’s even what it is.

Italy.

Is that where I am? My heart slams against my ribs. Because if I’m in Italy then I am so much farther from home than I ever imagined.

She ends the call and then types something, sliding the phone toward me.

My nephew is coming over. He speaks English.

I feel relief but at the same time I’m worried. What if her nephew is one of the men who brought me here?

But I type back: Thank you.

She hums under her breath, then jerks her chin for me to follow.

I trail after her through a narrow maze of hallways, my footsteps soft, my pulse loud in my ears.

The walls are close, worn smooth by time, the air heavy with old stone and something faintly savory.

When we reach the kitchen, recognition clicks into place.

Industrial sinks. Steel counters. Racks of pans hanging that are well-loved and used. It must be some kind of restaurant.

She moves with practiced efficiency, lifting a towel to reveal a loaf of bread nestled beneath it.

Her hands don’t shake when she slices it.

Two clean cuts with no waste. She drops the pieces onto a chipped plate and finally motions for me to sit on a barstool by the counter—far enough away that I can’t reach her if I wanted to.

I sit.

She slides the plate toward me, then steps back, her eyes never leaving my hands.

Mine tremble as I lift the bread. I half-expect her to snatch it away. But she doesn’t. She just watches, tense and wary, as if feeding me might be a mistake she’s already regretting.

The first bite is overwhelming. Warm. Dense. Real. It tastes like safety in a way that makes my throat tighten. I don’t slow down. I don’t savor it. I eat like the bread might vanish if I hesitate, like this small mercy could be revoked at any second. I don’t stop until both pieces are gone.

When I finally look up, crumbs still clinging to my fingers and relief settling sluggishly into my bones, she’s still there—arms crossed, fear carved deep into the lines of her face. I can’t tell if she’s afraid of me or for me. That’s the million-dollar question.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

She hums under her breath and moves to the fridge.

I watch as she begins preparing something that smells incredible, rich and savory, but I get the sense it isn’t meant for me.

That suspicion is confirmed when a bell chimes somewhere beyond the kitchen and a deep voice calls out—low, rapid, unmistakably male.

She answers without turning around.

Then boots hit the floor. The sound alone makes my spine stiffen. A tall man steps into the kitchen, filling the doorway like he belongs there, like the space reshapes itself around him. The first thing that hits me is how beautiful he is. That’s the only word that fits.

He’s tall, about Lorenzo’s height, but where Lorenzo is lean and sharp, this man is solid.

Massive in the way of someone built from years of physical work rather than intention.

Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his sweater.

His chest is thick, his arms heavy with muscle, forearms corded and strong even at rest.

His hair is dark, worn slightly long on top, with a loose curl that falls forward like it refuses to be tamed.

A well-kept beard frames his mouth and jaw, softening what would otherwise be an intimidating face, but not by much.

His eyes are light, startlingly so against the darker planes of his face, and they land on me with immediate awareness.

Not surprise. Not curiosity. Assessment.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there, steady and unmovable, like a man who’s used to being the final word in any room he enters. I don’t know who he is yet. But I know that everything just changed.

“So you’re the little thief who scared my favorite aunt nearly to death.”

His voice is deep and accented, smooth but edged with steel, and it sends a shiver straight down my spine.

“I’m not a thief,” I say quickly, forcing the words past the knot in my throat. “And I’m sorry I scared her. I’m scared too. Like I tried to tell her, I don’t know how I got here—or where I even am.”

He studies me in silence.

“An unbelievable story,” he says at last. “But I’ve heard stranger. Let’s start with your name.”

“Birdie,” I answer. “Birdie Miller. I’m from Kansas City, Missouri.”

A corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like interest.

“Well,” he says, “you’re a long way from Missouri, Miss Miller.”

The words hit harder than they should.

“Don’t call me that,” I snap before I can stop myself.

One dark brow lifts. “Apologies.”

I drag in a shaky breath. “No. I should apologize. I’m just—” My voice wobbles. “I’m really stressed right now, and someone I cared about used to call me that and—”

“Breathe, Birdie.”

The command lands like a hand on my sternum. My lungs obey before my brain catches up. I inhale. Then exhale.

His gaze doesn’t soften, but something in it steadies, like he’s decided I’m not a threat.

“Sorry,” I say again, because I don’t know what else to do with the knot in my chest.

“Do you know how you got here?”

I shake my head. “I remember waking up, and I was blindfolded. When I made a sound, they pushed something into my neck.” My fingers curl in my lap as the memory resurfaces, jagged and incomplete.

“The next time I woke up, I was here.” I hesitate, then ask the question that’s been clawing at me since I scraped paint off that window. “Do… do you know why I’m here?”

“I’m starting to get an idea,” he says slowly. “And it’s not good for either of us.”

My stomach drops. “How so?”

“You’re Lorenzo Conti’s mistress, aren’t you?”

I flinch. “I’m not a mistress.”

He tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle he’s already halfway solved.

“He’s engaged to someone else, is he not?” A faint smile curves his mouth. “I believe that is the very definition of a mistress.”

Heat rushes to my face. Shame. Anger. Fear.

“If you know who he is,” I say tightly, “then keeping me here against my will is a very bad idea.”

This time he laughs, deep and unbothered, as if I’ve amused him. He gestures lazily toward the door. “The exit is that way, Birdie. No one is stopping you.”

Relief sparks but is doused a second later.

“But” he continues, voice sharpening just enough to make me freeze, “I’d caution you to think for a moment before you step outside.”

“And why is that?”

“Because someone went to great effort to drug you and drop you in my aunt’s restaurant.” His eyes lock onto mine. “Someone who knows that Conti and I have been enemies for many years.”

Enemies.

The word sends a shiver straight down my spine.

“You can relax,” he adds, almost gently. “I’m not in the business of killing women. But someone out there wants to make sure a war starts over you.”

My throat tightens.

He watches me carefully now, no humor left in his expression.

“Any idea who would want to do that?”