Chapter 21
Birdie
The shouting downstairs has stopped, but now I hear something worse.
Crying.
It drifts up through the floorboards in broken, muffled bursts, the kind of sound that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. What in the world is happening down there?
I don’t have to wonder long. Footsteps sound in the hall. Heavy. Measured. Unhurried. I know it’s Lorenzo. The bedroom door opens, and he steps inside, bringing the cold force of himself with him. It feels like the whole room shifts to accommodate him, like the air thins and the walls draw in.
I look at him and keep my face blank. “Back to accuse me some more?”
His mouth twitches, but it isn’t a smile. “I was wrong to imply you tried to hurt yourself.”
I say nothing. Mostly because I’m too busy staring at him. Something has changed. What did he find out down there? He looks calmer now, but in the worst possible way. The anger hasn’t left him. It’s just gone still or settled into something more dangerous.
“You know something,” I say. “What happened?”
“Let’s just say,” he replies, taking a step closer, “I have another suspect in mind.”
“Tell me.”
He keeps coming until there’s barely any space left between the bed and his body. “No.”
“You can’t—”
“I most certainly can, cara.”
A laugh slips out of me, sharp and disbelieving. I shake my head against the pillow.
His gaze narrows. “Is something funny?”
“Yes,” I say. “Back to cara, I see. Save us both the turmoil and just call me Birdie like everyone else.”
The silence that follows is almost comical. Because that is the one thing he has never once called me.
His expression doesn’t change. “No.”
I blink at him. “Excuse me?”
“No.”
“I’m not asking.” I bare my teeth at him. “Birdie is my name, and I’d like you to call me that.”
“No.”
I stare at him for a beat. Then I nod slowly. “Fine.”
His brow lifts, like he knows something unpleasant is coming and is curious anyway.
“Then I’m going to call you Dave.”
That actually makes him pause. “Why Dave?”
I smile sweetly. “That was the name of the shitty guy I lost my virginity to. I think it’s fitting.”
The room goes very still.
“You will not call me the name of the man who took your virginity.”
“Oh,” I say lightly, “Dave doesn’t like that.”
His jaw flexes.
I shrug, ignoring the pull in my side. “Sorry, my dude. It’s a done deal. You’re Dave to me until you can respect my boundaries and call me Birdie like everyone else.”
For one suspended second, he just looks at me. Then he laughs. It’s entirely without humor.
“Careful,” he says softly. “I’m in no mood tonight.”
“Then stop giving me material, Dave.”
He moves so fast my breath catches.
One moment he’s standing at the end of the bed, and the next he’s braced one hand beside my hip, leaning down just enough to make the air between us feel charged. He’s not touching me, but he’s enough that I can see the dark storm in his eyes and the control stretched razor-thin over it.
“I am not Dave.”
“Mm.” I tilt my head. “You have the same fragile male ego, so I’m not seeing the difference.”
“You want to provoke me because you’re frightened.”
I hold his gaze. “I want to provoke you because you’re insufferable, Dave.”
“No,” he says quietly. “You want to provoke me because if I’m angry, I’m easier to read.”
That lands too close to the truth and I look away first.
“I told you,” I say, forcing my voice steady, “if you know something, you need to tell me.”
“And I told you no.”
“Because you don’t trust me.”
His stare doesn’t waver. “Should I?”
The question hangs between us. How can he still not trust me? After everything we’ve been through together…
I swallow. “I didn’t poison myself.”
“No.” His voice drops, roughening at the edges. “You didn’t.”
It should make me feel better.
Instead, it just makes my chest ache.
“Then who?”
His fingers curl once against the mattress. “Someone who now has my full attention.”
There’s something terrible in the way he says it. Something final. My hand slides protectively to my stomach. His gaze drops there immediately, and the room changes all over again.
When he looks back at me, his expression is unreadable.
“Rest, Birdie,” he says.
My eyes widen. There it is. He called me Birdie.
The traitor pulse in my throat jumps. Then I narrow my eyes. “That doesn’t count.”
One dark brow arches. “No?”
“No. You said it under duress.”
His mouth curves, small and merciless. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still Dave.”
That almost earns me a real smile. But then the shadow comes back over his face, and I know whatever happened downstairs is still sitting heavily in his mind. He straightens, and the loss of his nearness is immediate. I hate that I notice.
He starts for the door.
“Wait.”
He stops but doesn’t turn.
“Am I safe here?”
That makes him look back.
And whatever answer I expect, it isn’t the one he gives.
“With me?” he says softly. “Never.”
I’m kept on bed rest for two weeks.
Each time I so much as make it to the door, a new woman is there to tell me to get back in bed. New guards. New faces. At least these ones don’t look at me like they’re deciding whether to drag me back by force. They’re polite, but also unmoved by my pleas which is somehow worse.
On the fourteenth day, there’s a knock at the door.
Before I can answer, the doctor steps inside alone, carrying her bag and wearing the same cool, practical expression she had the day she saved my baby.
“Good afternoon, Miss Miller,” she says. “How are you feeling today?”
“Like I’m going out of my mind with boredom.”
One corner of her mouth twitches. “Any more bleeding?”
“No.”
She sets her bag on the chair near the window, then turns back to me. “Any cramping?”
“Some. Less than before.”
“Good.” She crosses to the bed and takes my wrist, checking my pulse with efficient fingers. “The test results came back.”
A strange chill moves through me.
“It was poison, then.”
She gives a small nod. “A pesticide. One that is manufactured and used only in the United States.”
For a second, I just stare at her. So someone did try to poison me.
“Given that you’ve been in Italy for nearly three months, Mr. Conti and I both agree you did not do this to yourself.”
A dry laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “How generous. I’m thrilled that now everyone believes me.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “I have seen many things in my career, my dear. I’ve learned not to be surprised by anything.” She pats my foot through the blanket. “The good news is that both you and the baby appear stable. You’re safe to travel.”
The word hits me wrong.
“Travel?”
She reaches for her bag again, rearranging instruments I don’t think she even used. “Mr. Conti said you’ll be returning to Chicago once you’re cleared.”
I sit up too fast, then wince. I glance toward the door, where no doubt one of his new female jailers is standing just outside.
Then I lower my voice.
“You have to help me.”
The doctor stills.
I grip the blanket tighter. “I’m being held here against my will.”
For one terrible second, she says nothing. Then she turns her head slightly, as if checking the door without making it obvious, and looks back at me.
“Are you?”
“Yes.” The word comes out sharp with desperation. “He controls who comes in here, who I speak to, where I go. He decides everything.”
Her gaze searches my face.
“Has he harmed you physically?”
I hesitate because the answer is not simple.
“No,” I say finally. “But that doesn’t mean I’m free.”
The doctor folds her hands in her lap. “And where would you go if you left?”
“To my fiancé, in Italy.”
Something unreadable flickers in her expression.
I catch it immediately. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No.” My voice rises. “Don’t do that. Don’t look at me like that and say nothing.”
She draws in a slow breath. “Miss Miller, I am your physician. My concern is your health and the health of your baby.”
“You’re also supposed to help people.”
She’s quiet for a moment.
Then she says, “I know men like Lorenzo Conti.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Congratulations. So do I.”
Her eyes stay on mine. “Do you?”
The question unsettles me more than it should.
She rises and moves toward the window, drawing the curtains apart a few inches as if checking the afternoon light. But I get the sense she’s buying herself time. Choosing her next words carefully.
“Men like him do as they please. Your best bet is to go along with what he wants.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not.”
Before I can answer, the door opens and Lorenzo steps inside. The room changes instantly. It always does when he enters. He takes in the scene in one sweep—me upright in bed, the doctor seated close, the tension still humming in the air—and his gaze settles on the doctor first.
“Well?”
She rises smoothly. “Mother and baby are stable. She’s fit to travel, provided she continues to rest.”
His eyes shift to me, and I refuse to look away.
“Good,” he says.
The doctor closes her bag. “Reach out if you have any questions. And be sure to see someone in Chicago.”
Then she’s gone.
And just like that, it’s only the two of us again.
Lorenzo closes the door softly behind her. He turns back to me and leans one shoulder against the wood, studying me in silence.
“What did you ask her for?” he says at last.
I go still. “What makes you think I asked for anything?”
“Because you have that look on your face.”
I fold my arms over myself. “And what look is that?”
“The one you get,” he says, voice low, “when you are deciding whether to lie to me prettily or tell me something that will make us both miserable.”
My pulse stutters.
He pushes off the door and walks closer.
“We leave for Chicago tomorrow,” he says.
My fingers tighten on my sleeves. “I’m not going with you willingly, Dave.”
He stops beside the bed.
“No,” he says quietly. “You aren’t.”
I lift my chin. “Then maybe you should start getting used to hearing no.”
His gaze drops to my lips and then to my stomach for the briefest moment, then rises again.
“Maybe,” he says, “you should start getting used to the fact that I no longer care what you want.”
The words should make me shrink. Instead, anger flashes hot and clean through my veins, and I hate that it’s mixed with arousal.
“See?” I snap. “That. That is exactly why I need to get away from you.”
Something changes in his face.
“You think I am the danger here.”
“Aren’t you?”
For one suspended second, neither of us moves.
Then he braces a hand on the mattress near my knee and leans down, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell the crisp dark scent of his clothes, see the exhaustion carved into the edges of his mouth.
“If I were the danger, Birdie,” he says softly, “you would already know it.”
My breath catches.
There it is again.
Birdie.
I thought having him call me that would be safer, but it’s not.
He straightens before I can answer.
“I’ve changed my mind. We’re leaving this evening. Be ready by five.”
Then he turns and heads for the door.
I stare after him. “Why Chicago?”
His hand rests on the knob. He doesn’t look back when he answers.
“Because here,” he says, “someone got close enough to poison you.”
He opens the door.
“In Chicago,” he finishes, voice like a promise dragged through hell, “they’ll have to come through me first.”