Chapter 16
Birdie
Oh my God.
He knows.
The realization slams into me so hard I nearly sway where I stand. Not because I said anything. Not because I slipped. But because of a freaking roast beef sandwich.
I almost laugh at the insanity of it, except I’m far too busy trying not to throw up. Of all the things that could have given me away—my body, my tears, my refusal of wine, the rushed wedding—it might have been a stupid sandwich that cracked my secret open.
My mind races. Has he truly put it together? Or is he only circling it? Did he notice enough to be sure, or just enough to start asking questions I can’t afford to answer?
I don’t get the chance to decide which possibility is worse.
He follows me into the hallway, his footsteps heavy and deliberate behind me.
“Come.”
I turn. “Where are we going?”
“I’m a man of my word,” he says, not even looking back as he keeps walking. “We’re going to my office to call Russo.”
I stop dead. Call Dante? No. Absolutely not. Not now. Not with Lorenzo staring at me like he’s one breath away from ripping the truth out of my chest with his bare hands. Not with suspicion riding him this hard.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
That makes him stop. Slowly, he turns to face me.
The look on his face steals the air from my lungs.
There’s no softness in it. No patience. Just that dark, terrifying calm he gets when he’s already decided how this is going to go and everyone else is foolish enough to think they still have choices.
“Well, too fucking bad.” His voice is low and edged with steel. “There are a few things I want to ask him.”
Ice slides down my spine. He’s not doing this for me. He’s doing it for himself. To test Dante. To bait him. To listen for hesitation, lies, guilt. To confirm whatever horrible theory is already forming in that ruthless mind of his. And there’s no way for me to warn Dante what Lorenzo suspects.
He takes one step toward me.
“If you don’t come on your own,” he says, “I will carry you.”
I believe him instantly. That’s the worst part.
Not because of the threat itself, but because I can see he means it.
There’s no bluff in him. If I refuse, he’ll haul me there over his shoulder like he did outside the boutique, and this time I don’t know if I’m more afraid of the humiliation or of what Dante might say once Lorenzo gets him on the line.
My fingers curl into my palms.
I hate that he keeps backing me into corners. I hate that Dante’s name in his mouth sounds like a challenge. And I hate that every road in front of me feels like a trap. But most of all, I hate that beneath the fear, one thought keeps screaming louder than all the rest:
If Lorenzo asks the wrong question, everything is over.
He waits, watching me with that hard, unreadable stare.
I force my legs to move.
“Fine,” I whisper.
His jaw tics once, but he says nothing. Just turns and starts walking again, certain I’ll follow. And because I know he’ll make good on the alternative, I do. Each step down that hallway feels like I’m walking toward an execution.
He leads me into the office like I’m a prisoner being marched to an interrogation.
The room is all dark wood and leather and quiet masculine control, every surface polished, every line expensive, every inch of it stamped with Lorenzo.
He goes behind the desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out his phone.
Then he looks at me.
“Sit.”
I stay where I am. “I can stand.”
His mouth flattens, but he says nothing. Just unlocks the phone and dials from memory.
My pulse starts pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
He puts the call on speaker. It rings once. Then Dante answers so fast it’s like he’s been waiting with the phone in his hand.
“Bring her back, Conti!”
The sound of his voice hits me like a blow. Relief crashes through me so violently my eyes sting.
“Dante—” I cry out. “It’s me.”
“Are you hurt?” he cuts in, voice rough and urgent. “Tell me right now. Are you hurt?”
“No,” I whisper. “I’m okay. Is Teresa okay?”
A sharp exhale comes through the line, half relief, half fury. “Thank God. Yes, she’s fine. Shaken, but fine.”
Lorenzo leans one hip against the desk, arms folded, watching me with the kind of stillness that is more threatening than pacing would have been. I close my eyes for one second and pray.
Dante speaks again, lower now, but no less intense. “Where are you?”
I open my mouth, but Lorenzo beats me to it.
“With me,” he says.
The silence on the other end goes dead.
Then Dante says, very softly, “Conti.”
“Russo.”
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees and I wrap my arms around myself.
Dante’s voice turns to steel. “Put her back on.”
Lorenzo doesn’t move his gaze from me. “In a moment.”
“Now.”
Lorenzo smiles. It is not a pleasant expression. “You seem awfully demanding for a man who just lost his bride.”
My stomach knots.
“Lorenzo,” I say sharply.
He ignores me.
Over the speaker, Dante goes quiet in that dangerous way men do when they’re one breath from violence. “You took her from my wedding.”
“And yet,” Lorenzo says mildly, “she’s still speaking. That counts for something, does it not?”
“Stop it,” I snap. “Both of you.”
Dante’s voice softens instantly when he answers me. “Birdie, listen to me. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes.”
“Has he touched you?”
The question lands like a match dropped in gasoline. Lorenzo’s expression changes by less than an inch, but it’s enough. His jaw hardens. His eyes go cold and lethal and I can feel the heat of him from across the desk.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
“Fine,” Dante repeats, and there’s so much anger packed into that one word it barely sounds human. “You don’t sound fine.”
Lorenzo pushes off the desk. “Careful, Russo.”
“No,” Dante says. “You be careful.”
A muscle jumps in Lorenzo’s cheek.
Dante keeps going, and now every word is clipped, deliberate. “I have men looking for her already.”
Oh God. I look at Lorenzo, but he doesn’t blink.
Dante’s voice comes through the speaker like a blade. “By tomorrow morning, I’ll have more. By tomorrow night, I’ll have enough to tear through every one of your properties if I have to.”
“Dante—”
“No,” he says, cutting me off. “He needs to hear this.”
Lorenzo’s face empties out in the most terrifying way. Not anger anymore. Something much worse. Calculation.
“I’m listening,” he says.
“Good.” Dante’s breathing is steady now, which somehow makes it more frightening. “Because here’s what happens next. You let her go, and this ends. You keep her, and there will be bloodshed.”
I stop breathing. On the other side of the desk, Lorenzo goes absolutely still.
Dante continues, voice low and merciless. “Not a scuffle. Not a warning shot. Bloodshed. Yours. Your men’s. Anyone stupid enough to stand between me and Birdie walks into a war.”
“Dante, stop.”
But he doesn’t.
“I am already gathering men,” he says. “Men who owe me. Men who don’t care whose name is over the gate when they kick it in. So you have one chance to be smart, Conti. One. Let her go before I come get her.”
The silence after that is suffocating. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. Lorenzo’s gaze is on me, but it feels like he’s seeing something far beyond me now. Something dark and old and inevitable.
When he finally speaks, his voice is almost conversational.
“You sound very certain.”
“I am.”
Lorenzo tilts his head. “Interesting.”
“Try me.”
“Oh, I believe you,” Lorenzo says. “That’s what makes this so entertaining.”
“Lorenzo,” I say, my voice shaking now. “Don’t.”
He ignores that too.
There’s a pause on the line, then Dante says, quieter, “Birdie. Come back to me.”
And that is what changes everything. Not the threat. Not the rage. Not the promise of men and guns and blood. Those four words.
Come back to me.
I see Lorenzo hear them. See the impact land. His mouth goes hard. His eyes burn black and I know, with sudden sick certainty, that he has folded those words into every terrible suspicion already growing in his head. The fast wedding. The secrecy. The baby he thinks is Dante’s.
My throat tightens.
“Dante,” I say quickly, “please don’t do anything reckless.”
A humorless sound comes through the phone. “Too late.”
My fingers grip the edge of the chair. “Please.”
His voice drops, and now it’s just for me. “Did he touch you?”
“I’m all right,” I say.
Lorenzo laughs once, low and without amusement.
Dante hears it. “You find this funny?”
“No,” Lorenzo says. “I find it revealing.”
“Meaning what?”
Lorenzo’s gaze drags over me, slow and knowing and furious all at once. “Meaning you seem very invested in rushing things, Russo.”
Dante goes silent. Lorenzo hears that silence too. Oh God. His expression doesn’t change, but something brutal flashes in his eyes. There it is. Not proof. But enough to feed the beast.
I stand up so abruptly the chair legs scrape the floor. “Hang up the phone.”
Neither man listens.
Lorenzo’s voice is silk over broken glass. “Tell me, did you propose because you’re sentimental? Or because you were in a hurry?”
“Watch yourself,” Dante says.
Lorenzo smiles. “That would be a yes, then.”
“Stop!” The word rips out of me. “I mean it. Nobody is storming anything. Nobody is shooting anyone. Nobody is bleeding for me.”
Lorenzo’s eyes never leave my face. “For you?”
I could kill him.
Dante’s voice softens again. “I’m getting you out of there.”
“And then what?” I demand. “You bring war down on yourself? On your family? On my—” I cut myself off so hard my teeth click together.
But it’s too late. Lorenzo catches every broken piece. His gaze sharpens to a knife edge.
Dante hears it too. “Birdie?”
I force myself to breathe. “Just… please. Give me time.”
“How much time?”
Lorenzo answers before I can. “None.”
“Shut up,” I snap.
One of his brows lifts, but he says nothing.
Into the phone, I say, “Tomorrow.”
Lorenzo turns his head slowly toward me.
Dante is quiet for a long moment. “Tomorrow,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“Birdie.” His voice is raw now. “If he hurts you—”
“He won’t,” I say, and I hate that I sound like I’m defending him.
Lorenzo notices and smirks.
Dante lets out a long breath. “Tomorrow, then. But hear me, Conti.”
Lorenzo picks up the phone from the desk and brings it closer, his eyes still on mine. “I hear you.”
“If she isn’t free by tomorrow, I come for her.”
Lorenzo’s smile is pure menace. “Then come well-armed.”
And he ends the call. The silence afterward is deafening.
I stare at him. “What is wrong with you?”
He sets the phone down with terrifying care. “What is wrong with me?”
“Yes.” My voice cracks. “He just threatened war, and you provoke him?”
“He threatened me in my own house.” Lorenzo takes one step around the desk. “And you expect courtesy?”
“I expect you not to turn everything into a bloodbath because your ego can’t stand—”
“My ego?” he repeats softly.
The tone of his voice sends a chill over my skin. He comes closer and I back up.
“Tell me something, Elizabeth.” His gaze drops, just briefly, to my stomach before lifting to my face again. “How much of Russo’s urgency is about you…”
My whole body goes rigid.
“…and how much,” he says, each word quieter than the last, “is about what you’re carrying?”
My lips part, but no sound comes out. And the worst part is written all over his face.
Rage.
Because Lorenzo Conti has decided my secret exists. And he has also decided it belongs to Dante.