Chapter 6
Birdie
This dinner is almost unbearable.
“So, Birdie,” Francesca begins, her tone dipped in honey and venom, “did you enjoy spending my fiancé’s money today?”
Strike that. It’s totally unbearable.
I set down my fork and look up, forcing a polite smile.
“I only got a few things,” I say honestly. “And I’m planning on paying Mr. Conti back.”
That’s also true.
Sienna snorts softly, already winding up. “Got a problem with my father spending his money on other women, Frannie? Better get used to it.”
Francesca’s gaze sharpens, but not on Sienna. On me. Crap. The air shifts, subtle but unmistakable.
“I do think it’s odd,” she says coolly, “that you’d let a man buy you clothes like a kept woman.”
The insult lands between us like a blade.
Mr. Conti’s voice cuts through it. “Enough, Fran.”
He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t even look at her, but the weight of his tone is enough to make the candles flicker.
Still, I can feel Francesca’s eyes on me, expectant, daring me to shrink. And maybe I should. Maybe that’s what most people do around her.
But I’m not most people.
“Odd that I let him buy me clothes?” I repeat, keeping my voice calm. “I needed clothes because I was ripped from my life. Would you rather I walk around naked?”
The corner of Sienna’s mouth twitches. “Good one, Birdie.”
Francesca’s smile falters for half a second before she composes herself again. “Touchy, aren’t we?” she murmurs, but I see the stiffness in her posture and the way her hand tightens around her wineglass.
Mr. Conti leans back in his chair, watching the exchange with that unreadable expression he wears so well. His dark eyes flick briefly toward me, assessing, maybe even a little amused.
“Fran,” he says finally, “if you can’t keep civil conversation at my table, you’re free to leave it.”
The room goes still.
Francesca blinks, disbelief flashing across her perfect face. “You’re defending her?”
“I’m stopping you,” he corrects, his tone cool and final.
Sienna sits back with a satisfied smirk. I just stare down at my plate, heart pounding, unsure whether to be relieved or more terrified than before. Francesca totally reminds me of the mean girls back in high school. And with that knowledge, I can safely assume that this isn’t over with her.
Francesca exhales through her nose, slow and measured, then rises from the table. “Excuse me.”
Her heels click against the marble as she disappears into the hallway, the sound fading like a warning.
Silence falls over the room, heavy and awkward. I can feel the heat crawling up my neck and my stomach tight with regret.
“Mr. Conti, I didn’t mean to—” I start.
He waves a hand, stopping me. “Don’t apologize. She crossed a line. And, please, call me Lorenzo.”
Sienna grins, clearly enjoying this far too much. “You really don’t like her, do you, Birdie?”
“I didn’t say that,” I murmur.
“Didn’t have to,” Sienna says, raising her glass. “Welcome to the family, Birdie. You fit right in.”
Mr. Conti… Lorenzo shoots her a warning look, but she just shrugs and takes another sip.
I press my napkin into my lap, pretending to focus on my food. But my thoughts are a mess, the heat from embarrassment mixing with something else I don’t want to name. Why did I talk back to Francesca and why did I like it when Lorenzo stood up for me?
When I finally glance up, Lorenzo’s watching me again. His gaze lingers a second too long before he glances at his buzzing cell phone
“Dinner’s over,” he says quietly.
And somehow, that simple statement feels like the end of something and the beginning of something much more dangerous. Sienna doesn’t seem bothered by it. She stands, smoothing her skirt.
“Come on, Birdie. We can organize my closet.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “What you mean is I can organize it.”
“Tomato, tomato,” she quips, already halfway out the door.
I follow, feeling Lorenzo’s gaze burn between my shoulder blades. It takes everything in me not to look back. The air in that dining room feels too heavy and intimate, like if I stay another second I’ll suffocate on the silence.
We round the corner toward the stairs and run straight into Francesca. Her arms are crossed, posture perfect, eyes glinting with amusement that doesn’t reach her smile.
“Are the children off to play for the night?” she asks, her voice light and cutting at once. “I told Lorenzo that I wanted to speak to him. Alone.”
Sienna doesn’t even hesitate. “Sure you did. More like he told you to leave and you’re going to beg to stay.”
Francesca’s gaze slides to me, sharp and assessing before going back to Sienna.
“Don’t be shocked if you hear moans coming from your father’s room later tonight,” she says, lowering her voice like she’s sharing a secret instead of throwing a dagger. “We get very vocal when we have sex.”
I freeze, the words hitting harder than I expect.
Sienna only laughs. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard a woman moaning from his room. Or the last, if I were to guess. Come on, Birdie.”
She brushes past Francesca like she’s immune, but I can’t move for a second. Francesca’s eyes find mine again, lingering just long enough to make sure I understand the message behind the cruelty.
When I finally turn to follow Sienna, my pulse is pounding in my ears.
I tell myself it’s anger.
That it’s disgust.
But deep down, I know that’s only half true.
Because the image she planted in my head—the one I don’t want to think about—won’t go away. The one where Lorenzo and Francesca are having sex. The thought shouldn’t bother me, dammit. But it does.
Sienna closes the door with a loud sigh and flops onto her bed. “God, I hope he wakes up and realizes that woman is a monster.”
“Has he ever been engaged before?” I ask, sitting at the edge of the bed.
That makes her pause.
“No.” Then she snorts softly. “Stupid traditions. You’d think they’d be okay with an heir being a female. I’d make an excellent mafia boss.”
I laugh, the sound easing some of the tension still coiled inside me. “You definitely would.”
She grins at that, eyes bright. “Damn right I would.”
I cross the room and grab one of the glossy shopping bags from earlier, pulling out folded tissue paper and clothes with designer labels that still don’t feel real.
Sienna had no trouble spending her father’s money.
I swear she made a sport of it. I, on the other hand, couldn’t shake the guilt and only got things I would need.
Sneakers, jeans, undergarments, shirts, and a coat.
I wanted to get more, but I’m glad I didn’t. Especially after Francesca’s dig.
“Why do you think he chose her?” I ask after a moment, my voice quieter now.
“Frannie?” Sienna scoffs. “Well, she’s his type, for one. I’m sure she comes from a family with connections, too. That’s usually how these things go.”
His type.
The words settle in my chest like lead. I try to laugh it off, but the sound comes out thin. “Right. Tall, dark, and terrifyingly confident.”
Sienna smirks. “Exactly. Trust me, you’re better off not being his type.”
I hum in agreement, but the thought lingers unwelcome and heavy.
Because no matter how many times I tell myself I don’t care, the truth sneaks in all the same.
I’ll never be a tall, Italian goddess like Sienna or Francesca.
And for reasons I can’t begin to explain, that realization hurts far more than it should.
Sienna scrolls on her phone while I hang up her purchases.
Her closet is the size of the dorm room we shared freshman year.
Maybe bigger. Everything gleams under soft recessed lights, rows of shoes lined like soldiers, the faint scent of expensive perfume clinging to the air.
The best part, in my opinion, is that it’s color coordinated.
My friend is too messy to have done that herself, which means it was likely Rosa.
When I step out of the closet, Sienna’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, practically bouncing with energy.
“We were just invited to a party!” she announces, waving her phone like a golden ticket. “My friend said there’s going to be a ton of celebs there.” Her grin widens. “We have to go.”
Sienna’s always been the life of any party we’ve ever gone to. It doesn’t surprise me that she was already invited to go out.
“It’s at an old library that’s been converted into a club,” she continues, scrolling through photos. “There’s still books and everything. Look!”
I’m the opposite. I like quiet. Corners.
Books. Which is why I know she’s hyping it up to sweeten the deal.
She shoves the screen toward me, and sure enough, the pictures are stunning—vaulted ceilings, rows of bookshelves glowing under warm light, and a mezzanine level turned into a dance floor. It looks magical.
“You really think your dad’s going to let you go?” I ask, eyebrows lifting.
She grins. “He doesn’t have to let me. I’m not twelve, and besides, he’s got other things on his mind tonight. Frannie, for one.”
I roll my eyes. “Still. I doubt he wants us wandering into a club full of strangers a night after we were shot at.”
Well, I was actually shot, but that’s neither here nor there.
Sienna leans forward, her tone conspiratorial. “That’s why we don’t tell him.”
I stare at her, torn between horror and amusement. “You want to sneak out on your dad? The man whose employees carry guns in his living room?”
She laughs. “Oh, come on, Birdie. Live a little. You’ve been acting like you’re in witness protection since we got here.”
Maybe because I basically am.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I glance at her phone again—the picture of chandeliers and whiskey-colored light, of people who look like they have no idea what fear feels like. It looks like another world. And I can’t decide if I want to run from it or step right inside.
But then I make the mistake of thinking about what Francesca said. I definitely don’t want to hear any kind of moan coming from Lorenzo’s room. Hers or his.
“Fine.”