Chapter 3
Birdie
Sienna’s dad steps out when the nurse comes back in, and I finally feel like I can breathe for the first time since he walked into the room. The air seems to settle, heavy but still, like the storm’s passed. For now.
Lorenzo Conti is intense—dangerously so—but more than that he’s gorgeous in a way that feels almost unfair.
When he first stepped into the room, shadows carved along the hard line of his jaw and the sharp cut of his cheekbones.
The black suit he wore didn’t hide a damn thing.
Certainly not the muscles beneath. No, it only emphasized the power coiled beneath it.
And, god, he’s tall. There’s a quiet force to him, something deliberate and controlled, like he knows exactly what kind of effect he has on a room and on me.
His hair is dark with flecks of silver at his temples, the kind that makes a man look even more dangerous.
And when his dark gaze pinned me I couldn’t look away. The air shifted, charged, like a storm gathering right above my skin. I’m still feeling the echo of it, humming through me, refusing to fade. My damn nipples are so pebbled that they hurt.
The nurse glances toward the door before turning her attention to me. Her expression is careful, but her voice drops low.
“Are you safe?”
The question throws me. I blink at her. “What?”
“With that man,” she says quietly, eyes flicking toward the hallway again. “Are you safe with him?”
I should tell her I don’t even know him. That every instinct I have is screaming no, I’m not safe.
But I think of Sienna’s pale, tear-streaked face. Of the way Lorenzo Conti filled the room. Whatever he is, he’s not the kind of man you tell no to.
So I nod, even though the lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I’m safe.”
The nurse studies me for a moment longer, like she doesn’t quite believe me, then gives a tight nod and starts gathering the paperwork.
“We’ll get you something to wear since your dress is…”
Covered in blood.
I say, “Thank you.”
When she leaves, I stare down at my bandaged arm and wonder if I just convinced her or myself.
I mean, what would happen if I told her that I do think I’m in danger?
It’s not like I have family to call. And all of my friends went through the same trauma I did.
So, unfortunately for me, I think I’m actually safer going with Sienna and her very intimidating father.
A few minutes later, the nurse returns holding a folded pile of light-blue scrubs and a plastic bag.
“They’re a little big,” she says with a sympathetic smile, “but better than what you came in with. Your dress is in the bag. You might be able to get it cleaned.”
I bite back a snort. I’m short and curvy. Nothing rarely fits the way it should, and it’s definitely never too big.
“Thank you,” I say, taking them with my good hand.
Changing takes longer than it should. Every movement makes my arm throb.
I could ask Sienna for help, but I just want to be alone right now.
Surprisingly, the scrubs hang loose on me, the drawstring tied as tight as it’ll go.
I glance in the mirror and shake my head.
My face is pale and my hair is a mess. I look like someone else entirely.
I pull the ribbons and undo my pigtails, letting my hair hang freely in soft waves.
I take the bag with the dress and drop it in the trash on my way out. When I step into the hallway, Sienna’s waiting, bouncing on her heels.
“Finally! Dad’s getting the car.” She tries to sound upbeat, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
I want to ask her if she knows what happened tonight, but don’t get a chance because she leads me through the sliding doors.
Outside, the cold hits first, making me shiver. A sleek black SUV idles by the curb, engine humming low. Mr. Conti stands beside it, coat collar turned up, phone in hand. Even here, surrounded by strangers, people seem to make space for him without realizing it.
“Careful,” Sienna murmurs, steadying me as we approach.
Mr. Conti ends his call and opens the back door. “Get in, both of you.”
I hesitate only a second before climbing inside. The leather seats are warm, the air faintly scented with suede and something darker—expensive, masculine, intimidating.
Sienna slides in beside me, still chattering about how we’ll get real food once we’re home, how I’ll love Chicago, how everything’s going to be fine. But as the SUV pulls away from the hospital, I can’t shake the thought that whatever I’ve just stepped into, there’s no going back.
Sienna’s oblivious to my inner panic, fiddling with the hem of her coat like nothing about tonight is strange. “Dad, were you able to get our phones?”
Our phones? That’s what she’s worried about?
I glance toward the front. Mr. Conti’s gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror. His eyes are dark and unreadable, making me shiver. His attention turns to his daughter.
“They’ll be waiting on the jet,” he says simply.
“Good.” Sienna leans back with a sigh, relaxing as if we’re leaving from a normal dinner party instead of a bloodbath. “I’m going to text some of my friends in Chicago to let them know we’re coming home. Maybe we can find a party to go to.”
A party?
I stare at her, my mind scrambling to catch up. Mikel’s blood is probably still drying on the floor, and she’s talking about drinks and music like it’s any other night.
“What about Mikel?” I hear myself ask, my voice sharper than I intend. “And Dave.”
Sienna frowns, turning toward me. “Obviously I’m upset they’re gone,” she says, like she’s explaining something simple to a child.
I can’t even find words. My stomach twists and the SUV’s interior feels too warm. Mr. Conti doesn’t say anything, but I can see his jaw tighten.
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. Sienna pulls out her lip gloss, staring at her reflection in the dark window like this is all routine. Hell, maybe it is. For her. Not me, though.
I turn my gaze outside, watching the city lights smear into gold and white streaks.
Somewhere behind us, an entire life—my friends, my apartment, and my sense of normal—is bleeding out on the floor.
Ahead of me waits something I can’t name yet.
Something dangerous. And when I meet Mr. Contis’s gaze in the mirror again—the man who commands every inch of air in the SUV without saying a word—I realize I’ve traded one kind of fear for another.
We pull up to a private airfield just as the horizon begins to change with hints of sunrise. A lone jet waits on the tarmac, silver and silent, its engines humming softly in the cold morning air.
Two men with guns flank the stairs. Their postures are easy and practiced. They’re men who’ve spent their lives standing guard for someone important.
“Morning, Don Conti,” one of them says, giving a short nod. “The pilot says we’re cleared for takeoff.”
Mr. Conti returns the nod and climbs the stairs without hesitation, the wind tugging at the hem of his coat. Sienna trails after him, her hair catching the early light like obsidian.
Me? I stay rooted to the pavement, staring at the jet.
Don.
The word rolls through my head, cold and heavy. Not “Mister,” not “Sir.” Don.
I take a slow breath, weighing my options. If I ran right now how far would I make it? A hundred feet? Fifty? Maybe I’d get as far as the fence before a bullet found my back.
But if I go with them… if I step onto that jet… what happens then? Would I be safe or just trapped somewhere I don’t understand?
The morning wind bites through my scrubs, and I realize how stupid I must look standing here, in borrowed scrubs and my black ballet flats, clutching my discharge papers like they could save me.
“Elizabeth.”
My name, spoken low and firm, snaps me back. I look up. Mr. Conti is at the top of the stairs, his expression unreadable, his silhouette framed by the open cabin door.
It’s not a threat. It’s not even loud. But it’s an order.
So, I move.
Each step feels heavier than the last, the sound of my shoes hitting the metal stairs ringing sharp and hollow in the cold air. The whole structure hums beneath me, like even the steel can sense what’s waiting at the top.
When I reach the landing, he doesn’t step aside. Of course he doesn’t. He stands exactly where he is, his broad shoulders blocking the narrow path, forcing me to squeeze past him if I want to continue. It’s a deliberate move. A power play. A test.
And I hate myself a little for inhaling his scent as the space tightens around us. Clean soap, warm skin, something darker beneath it. It hits me hard enough to dizzy me.
I make the mistake of looking up.
He’s already watching me. Not casually. Not even politely. No, he’s watching me like he’s cataloging every breath I take, every tremor, every tell.
My breath catches, snagging in my throat, but somehow by pure luck or stubbornness my feet keep moving. I edge past him, my shoulder brushing the warmth of his chest for the briefest, most dangerous second.
I don’t breathe again until I’m beyond him and the air between us is safe.
Even though there’s nothing safe about him at all.
A flight attendant shuts the door with a soft hiss, cutting out the cold and the world I knew along with it.
The inside of the jet looks nothing like I expected.
It’s quiet, expensive, and so clean it doesn’t feel real.
Cream-colored leather seats line both sides of the narrow aisle, facing each other like a living room in the sky.
Brass fixtures gleam under soft recessed lighting, and a faint scent of leather and espresso lingers in the air.
Every surface is polished. There’s no clutter and no sign of life. Just perfection wrapped in silence. Even the hum of the engines feels muted, as if the air itself knows who it belongs to.