Chapter 4
Birdie
I wake up disoriented, the room spinning in slow, uneven waves. For a moment I can’t remember where I am. The ceiling’s too high, the sheets too soft, and everything is too quiet.
Then the pain hits. A sharp, burning throb in my arm that brings everything crashing back—the party, the gunshots, the smell of blood and smoke. Mikel’s body. Dave’s empty eyes. Chicago.
Lorenzo Conti.
I exhale shakily and push myself upright, the movement tugging at the wound until spots flicker at the edge of my vision.
The guest room around me is dim, quiet, and too elegant to feel real.
The clock on my phone shows it’s only nine in the morning, which means I dozed off for a few hours after Sienna left me.
I make my way to the bathroom, one careful step at a time.
The floor is cool under my feet, the light soft and golden when I flick it on.
For a second, I just stare at my reflection.
My skin is pale, tangled hair, and I have dark circles like bruises beneath my eyes.
The instructions said not to get my arm wet, but I can change the bandage today.
I unwrap the dressing slowly, teeth clenched as the gauze sticks in places.
A hiss slips through my teeth when pain shoots through my arm, hot and deep.
The doctor had said I was lucky that the bullet went straight through my deltoid. No nerve damage. No bone shattered. Just torn flesh and time.
Lucky.
Funny how survival can hurt more than the wound itself.
I rinse my good hand under the faucet, splash water on my face, and catch my reflection again. I still look like me, but it feels like whoever I was before that night didn’t make it out of Kansas City.
A soft knock breaks through the silence, startling me so badly I nearly drop the roll of gauze.
“Ms. Miller?” a woman’s voice calls gently from the other side of the bedroom door. “May I come in?”
I hesitate, glancing at my half-wrapped arm, then pull the sleeve of my borrowed scrub top over it as I walk back into the bedroom. “Uh—yeah. Come in.”
The door opens to reveal a woman in her forties, dressed in a crisp black uniform with a white collar.
Her dark hair is pulled into a bun so tight it barely moves when she nods.
Balanced on her arm is a tray—folded clothes stacked neatly beside a small container of pills and a glass of orange juice.
“Good morning,” she says softly, her accent faint but elegant. “Mr. Conti asked that you have these when you woke. Breakfast will be ready soon.”
I blink, still trying to shake the fog from my head. “You—you work for him?”
“Yes, Miss. My name is Rosa. If you need anything while you’re here, you ask for me.
” She sets the tray on the edge of the bed and gestures to the pills.
“Pain medication and antibiotics. With food, preferably. And these”—she nods to the folded stack—“are fresh clothes. Mr. Conti said you’d prefer something comfortable. ”
I glance down. On top is a soft ivory sweater and a pair of black leggings that look far too nice to be loungewear. The shocking thing is it looks to be exactly my size.
“Thank you,” I murmur, though it comes out smaller than I intend.
Rosa nods once. “Someone will come fetch you when breakfast is served. Until then, take it easy. You’ve had a long night.”
When she leaves, the room feels even quieter than before. I stare at the clothes for a long time before reaching for the pills. The orange juice is cold and tart as I use it to wash down the medication.
Lorenzo Conti thinks of everything, apparently. What I’ll wear, what I’ll take, and when I’ll eat. And somehow, that’s the part that scares me the most because I’ve never had someone who cared.
Back in the bathroom, I finish wrapping my arm, the bandage sitting neater this time.
It still aches, but the clean white gauze feels like progress.
I grab a washcloth and run it under warm water, using it to wipe away the hospital smell clinging to my skin.
It’s not the same as a real shower, but it’s enough to make me feel a little more human.
There’s a brush in one of the drawers and I use it to run through my hair.
Carefully, I lift my injured arm and manage to put my hair in a messy bun.
Messy because it’s the best I can do, but it looks cute, so I don’t fret too much over it.
After changing into the clothes Rosa brought, I almost don’t recognize myself.
The ivory sweater is soft and warm against my skin and hangs long enough to cover my butt, and the black leggings hug my hips in a way that feels too intentional.
I don’t know whether Mr. Conti chose them himself or simply told someone to “make her comfortable.” Either way, it feels deliberate.
And my flats look cute with the outfit, so that’s a win, too.
I open the bedroom door and step into the hallway. The penthouse is so quiet I can hear the faint hum of the city through the glass walls below. It’s still cloudy out and snowing. The place smells faintly of coffee and something expensive I can’t name.
Sienna said her room was a few doors down. Maybe she’s awake. Because there are some things I want to talk to her about now that I’ve had time to rest.
I start down the hall passing door after door that all look the same. Then I hear a faint rustle, maybe the sound of fabric and movement. I glance toward an open door at the far end of the corridor.
Mr. Conti’s room.
I should turn around. I know I should. But something about that sound pulls me closer before I can stop myself.
The door is open just enough for me to see him.
He’s standing near the window, bare from the waist up as he pulls on a crisp white dress shirt.
Morning light spills through the glass, catching on the lines of his shoulders and the defined muscles of his tattooed back.
Shadows and gold highlight every ridge, every sharp contour.
He moves with an easy, unhurried grace—someone utterly accustomed to being in control of every situation, even the simple act of dressing.
I freeze. I don’t breathe. I don’t even blink.
Because, holy hell, he’s beautiful. Not handsome. Not attractive. Beautiful in a way that feels private, almost forbidden, like I’m witnessing something I was never meant to see. Like this version of him—unguarded, unstudied—belongs to no one.
The soft rustle of fabric fills the silence as he slides the shirt over his arms, leaving it unbuttoned while he reaches for a tie draped over the chair. The muscles along his abdomen shift with the movement, the ink on his skin catching the light in quiet flashes.
Then as if pulled by an invisible thread he turns and our eyes meet.
A beat of stillness follows, so complete it feels like the air forgets how to move.
His expression doesn’t shift, but I see it.
The flicker. The moment his gaze sharpens just a fraction—enough to tell me he knows exactly what I saw.
Exactly what I was thinking. Exactly how still I went watching him.
And from the way his breath subtly catches I think he felt it too.
“Good morning,” he says finally, voice low, smooth, and far too calm.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My pulse is a drumbeat in my throat.
“I was just looking,” I manage, my voice barely steady. “For Sienna!”
His gaze lingers on me for a beat too long before he nods. “She’s downstairs.”
I should leave. I need to leave. But I can’t seem to move until he turns back toward the mirror, sliding his cufflinks into place like the encounter never happened.
Only then do I manage to step back into the hallway, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my wound.
By the time I make it downstairs, my heartbeat still hasn’t decided to calm down. I tell myself it’s because of the stairs, or the pain in my arm, or the lack of sleep… but I know better.
It’s because of him.
The scent of coffee and something buttery drifts from the kitchen. Sienna’s already at the table, barefoot, hair in a messy braid, scrolling through her phone.
She grins when she spots me. “Morning! There’s coffee, pastries, fruit—whatever you want. Rosa went overboard.”
“Smells amazing,” I manage, sliding into the seat opposite her.
Rosa appears a moment later with a steaming mug. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Both,” I say automatically, because it gives me something to do.
Mr. Conti enters as she sets the mug down. He’s fully dressed now in dark slacks, black vest, and that same white shirt I saw him pulling on upstairs. The memory flashes hot behind my eyes and I look down quickly, pretending to stir my coffee.
“Sleep well?” he asks, voice smooth as the espresso he’s pouring for himself.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Thank you. For everything.”
His gaze lingers on me just long enough to make my stomach tighten. “You’re welcome.”
Sienna, oblivious to the weight in the room, pipes up. “Dad said he’s going into the office later, but we can go shopping this afternoon! I told him you need a coat. Maybe some boots.”
Office? I wasn’t aware that Dons had offices…
Mr. Conti nods without looking at Sienna. “One of my men will take you.”
I glance between them. “That’s not necessary. I won’t be—”
“It is,” he cuts in gently but firmly. “Chicago winters are unforgiving, and I’d rather you not freeze to death because you underestimated the weather.”
Sienna snorts into her orange juice. I don’t.
The silence that follows stretches thin until Rosa breaks it, setting a plate of fresh croissants on the table. I murmur a quiet thanks, but my hands still shake when I reach for one.
Mr. Conti sits at the head of the table, unfolding the morning paper.
His presence fills the room even when he doesn’t speak, and the sound of every rustling page feels amplified.
Sienna talks about how much she’s missed Chicago.
I sip my coffee and nod in all the right places, but my mind keeps drifting back to the weight of his gaze.