Chapter 2
Birdie
I stare at him, my pulse thudding so loudly it feels like it might give me away. The room tilts, just slightly, like the edges of reality can’t quite hold.
“No,” I finally say, my voice thin. “I can’t think of anyone. I’m a nobody.”
He studies me for a long moment, his blue eyes assessing, like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had.
“Not true,” he says at last. “Someone cares a great deal about you.”
My fear sharpens not inward, but outward. Toward the man I left behind.
“You said you’re his enemy,” I ask, dread crawling up my spine. “Did you have something to do with Sienna’s death?”
I watch his face carefully this time, bracing myself.
What I don’t expect is the flicker of grief that cuts through his expression. It’s gone almost as soon as it appears, but not before it steals my breath.
“I didn’t kill Sienna,” he says quietly. “Though I’m guessing the same person who brought you here is responsible.”
My throat tightens. “Did you… did you know her?”
“I did.” He pushes to his feet in one smooth motion. “Come.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, panic nipping at my heels as I slide off the stool.
“If someone truly drugged you, you need to be seen by my physician,” he replies. “He’ll give you fluids. Help clear whatever’s still in your system.”
“And if I lied?” I challenge, even though my knees feel weak.
“Then he’ll take care of that too.” His gaze locks onto mine, unwavering. “But you’re not lying.”
Something about the certainty in his voice unsettles me more than a threat would have.
“How do you know?” I ask.
A corner of his mouth lifts—not in a smile, but in something colder. More knowing.
“Because,” he says, “you can’t lie.”
And the way he says it makes me wonder if he’s been watching me far longer than I realize.
I glance back at his aunt who is still working at the counter. She gives me a small smile which makes me feel better. I mean, if I was about to be murdered I’d hope she wouldn’t be smiling. I hope.
Outside, I stop.
The world opens up in front of me like a postcard that forgot it was supposed to be gentle.
White stone buildings crowd close together, stacked and layered as if they grew straight out of the cliffs themselves.
Narrow cobblestone streets snake between them, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.
Everything is sun-bleached and bright, so bright it makes my eyes ache after the dimness inside.
The sea stretches out beyond the edge of the town, impossibly vast and impossibly blue, crashing far below against jagged limestone cliffs.
The air smells like salt and stone and something fried drifting from another kitchen down the street.
Laundry hangs from iron balconies overhead, fluttering lazily in the breeze like this is the safest place in the world.
My knees wobble.
This place is ancient and completely unfamiliar.
People pass us—locals, I assume—talking and laughing in Italian, carrying bread and bags and coffee cups, casting only brief, curious glances my way. No one looks alarmed. No one looks like they’re witnessing a crime.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Because wherever I am, whatever this place is, it’s real.
And I am very, very far from Kansas City.
I swallow hard, my pulse picking up as the truth settles into my bones.
Someone didn’t just move me. They hid me.
And whoever did it chose a place so beautiful, so ordinary, that no one would ever think to look for a missing girl here, standing on a cliff above the sea, pretending she isn’t terrified.
“Come on, Birdie,” he says, motioning for me to follow him.
I hesitate, glancing down the narrow street that curves away from us, stone walls pressing close on either side. “Where’s your car?”
He snorts softly, like the question amuses him.
“People are set in their ways here. It’s not like Bari. Streets are too old, too narrow. Cars don’t belong everywhere.” He starts walking, already assuming I’ll follow. “We’ll have to walk to the edge of town where the car is parked. It’s not far.”
Edge of town. The phrase sends a small ripple of panic through me because what happens next?
I hurry to catch up, my steps uneven on the worn cobblestones.
“You never told me your name,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Is that on purpose?”
He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Not at all.” A beat passes. “Dante Russo,” he says. “A pleasure to meet you.”
I repeat it silently in my head—Dante Russo—searching my memory for any reaction. There’s nothing. No spark of recognition. No warning bell.
Which, at this point, feels almost worse.
His name doesn’t sound familiar, but then again, none of this is. Not the language drifting past us from open windows. Not the smell of bread and salt and something citrusy in the air. Not the way the town feels like it’s both watching me and completely indifferent to my existence.
The walk feels longer than he promised.
Polignano a Mare slips past in quiet fragments—stone steps worn smooth by centuries of feet, shuttered windows just beginning to glow with morning light, the distant crash of waves somewhere below the cliffs.
People glance at us as we pass, curious but not alarmed.
Like I’m just another woman walking beside a man who belongs here.
We reach the edge of town where a sleek black car waits, out of place against the old cars and scooters parked in the lot. Dante opens the passenger door without ceremony. I slide inside, my limbs heavy, my head still swimming.
The drive to Bari blurs. The city grows larger, louder, sharper. Modern buildings replace limestone homes. Traffic thickens. My stomach churns, and I press a hand to it, willing the nausea away. Stress. Shock. Hunger. That’s all this is.
It has to be.
Dante’s villa sits behind iron gates just outside the city—white stone, clean lines, guarded but not ostentatious. Inside, everything smells like citrus cleaner and leather.
A doctor is already waiting.
He’s older, calm, silver-haired, with kind eyes that miss nothing. He asks questions gently, in accented English. What I remember. What I ate. When I last slept. Whether I’ve been ill recently.
I answer automatically and truthfully while Dante watches on.
The doctor checks my vitals. Explains the likely sedatives in my system in careful, neutral terms. Says he wants to start and IV.
Then he pauses.
“Miss,” he says, studying the tablet in his hand. “Before we proceed further, there is something we should confirm.”
My heart stutters. “Confirm… what?”
He hesitates just long enough for fear to bloom.
“Routine,” he assures me. “But important, given what you’ve described.”
He steps out briefly. Comes back with a small cup, a test strip. Professional. Detached.
Five minutes later, the world ends.
The doctor looks at me first and something in his expression shifts.
“I’m afraid the nausea isn’t just from the drugs,” he says quietly.
I shake my head before he can finish. “No. That’s not—no.”
“I’m very sure,” he says. “You’re pregnant. Early. But unmistakable.”
The room tilts. Sound drains away like someone pulled a plug. My fingers curl into the edge of the bed, knuckles white.
Pregnant.
No.
No no no.
Across the room, I dimly register Dante going very still.
“How far along?” he asks.
“Approximately five weeks.”
Five weeks.
The month with Lorenzo. The fake pills. The lie I never knew I swallowed.
Tears blur my vision, hot and furious and terrified all at once.
“I can’t be—” My voice breaks. “That’s not possible.”
But it is. I know it is because of what Lorenzo did to me.
The doctor speaks again, gently. “You’ll need rest. Monitoring. We’ll run more tests to ensure the pregnancy wasn’t affected by the sedatives.”
I barely hear him.
Because all I can think is that someone didn’t just want to start a war over me. They wanted to start it over Lorenzo’s child.
“Doctor, I believe Birdie is feeling overwhelmed. Give us a moment.”
The man leaves and then Dante squats in front of the chair I’m in.
“I take it this wasn’t planned?”
“Not at all.” My chin wobbles. “This isn’t good, is it?”
Dante studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
“No,” he says finally. “This is not good.”
My stomach drops. I curl my fingers into the arms of the chair like I might fall out of it.
“For the baby?”
“For everyone,” he corrects gently. He shifts closer, lowering his voice even though we’re alone. “If what I suspect is true, this wasn’t about hurting you.”
My breath comes shallow. “Then what was it?”
“They moved you,” he says, eyes sharp now. “Across borders. Across rival territory. They made sure you’d be found alive. That tells me this wasn’t meant to end quietly.”
A chill crawls up my spine.
“They wanted the truth discovered,” he continues. “They wanted you frightened. Isolated. And now—” his gaze flicks briefly but respectfully to my stomach “—now they’ve ensured there’s no clean way out.”
I swallow hard. “You think they knew? How? I didn’t even know!”
Dante doesn’t hesitate. “I think someone suspected. And gambled.”
The room feels too small.
“What happens now?”
He straightens slightly, but his voice stays low, steady. “Now you are no longer just Lorenzo Conti’s weakness.”
That word—weakness—stings, even if I understand it.
“You’re leverage,” he says. “And leverage gets protected… or destroyed.”
My vision blurs. “I never wanted this. Any of it.”
“I believe you,” he says, and for the first time there’s something like sympathy in his eyes. “But intention doesn’t matter much in our world.”
“Is Lorenzo in danger?”
Dante exhales slowly. “A Made Man is always in danger. But this is different. This is something that could bring down his empire.”
The words settle over me like ash.