Chapter 8
Birdie
I wake up in a bed that’s not mine.
The room is too large, too quiet, too cold despite the fire that burns low in the corner. I blink at the pale morning light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and for a moment, I can’t remember where I am.
Then it hits.
The pain in my side and in my arm.
Sienna.
The shooting.
The blood.
It’s been three days since she was murdered, and I think I’m slowly slipping into depression. Or madness. Maybe both.
No one speaks to me. Hell, no one even looks at me. The maids come and go like ghosts, silent and quick, their eyes fixed anywhere but on me. It’s like Lorenzo told them to pretend I don’t exist, and they agreed without hesitation.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I could at least see him, but I haven’t since he asked me to pick out a dress for her.
That last moment replays over and over. Me handing him the black dress I thought Sienna would have liked, the way he took it from me without a word, his eyes hollow and unreadable.
How our fingers brushed. Then he was gone.
But I’ll see him today.
Today is her funeral.
The house is alive in a way that feels wrong.
There’s movement everywhere, muted footsteps, and the low murmur of voices.
Men in suits pass the doorway every few minutes, their presence reminding me that Lorenzo Conti doesn’t just bury a daughter—he buries a legacy, and the entire city shows up to bow their heads.
I lift my phone, scrolling through old texts from Sienna. There’s one where she sent me a photo of us in front of the fountain at school. Look at us, she’d written. Future Real Housewives of Kansas City.
My throat tightens. I scroll further, to messages from our friends who have no idea what happened. Part of me wonders if I should tell them. What would I even say?
Sienna’s dead. We snuck out to go to a club, and someone shot her.
The words form in my head, heavy and poisonous. I don’t type them. I can’t.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
When I open it, Rosa stands there in black, her eyes puffy from crying. She holds out a folded dress.
“For the service,” she says softly. “You’ll head to the church at eleven.”
It’s simple. Elegant. Black silk with a modest neckline.
Lorenzo must have known that my other black dress was the dress I wore to the club that night. My eyes water and I have to blink away the tears.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Rosa hesitates like she wants to say something, then only nods and disappears down the hall.
I close the door and press the dress to my chest.
Today, I have to stand beside a man I barely know and pretend I belong here. Pretend the weight in my chest isn’t crushing me with every breath. Pretend I don’t feel like an intruder in a world that shattered the moment Sienna took her last breath.
And worst of all I have to pretend I don’t wish it had been me.
The truth burns beneath my ribs like a secret I’m too ashamed to speak aloud. Because every time I close my eyes, I see her smile. Her gold dress. Her laughter. The light she carried so effortlessly.
Sienna had a future. A life. People who loved her long before I ever stumbled into the picture.
And me? I was a bystander caught in the wrong place in the wrong moment. A shadow compared to her brightness. When the bullet tore through her world, part of me still believes it should’ve torn through mine instead.
So I stand here in borrowed clothes and borrowed strength, forcing myself to breathe while grief gnaws at me from the inside.
Pretending—because that’s all I have left—that I’m strong enough to stay upright when every part of me is wishing I could trade places with the girl who deserved so much more than the ending she got.
More tears fill my eyes, but somehow I manage to dress. I’m in the foyer with moments to spare, but Lorenzo is nowhere in sight. A man steps forward.
“I’m Cesaro, Lorenzo’s Capo. I’ll be driving you to the church, Ms. Miller.”
“Please call me Birdie.”
He dips his head and motions for me to get on the elevator.
“Is… how is Lorenzo?” My voice feels thin, like it’s barely making it past my throat.
Cesaro’s eyes flick toward me, guarded. “Like you’d expect,” he says, his tone clipped but not unkind. “He’s not sleeping.”
I nod, but the gesture feels inadequate.
Of course Lorenzo’s not sleeping. How could he? Sleep belongs to people whose world hasn’t been ripped apart. People who haven’t had to plan their child’s funeral. People who aren’t being held together by anger and grief and the sheer force of will required not to collapse in front of their men.
I picture him alone in his study, firelight flickering over the empty room, echoes of where Sienna’s laughter used to be. Her things are still untouched in her room. Her absence louder than any gunshot.
Of course he isn’t sleeping. And nothing about that surprises me.
The elevator hums softly as it descends. My reflection in the mirrored wall looks like someone else—pale skin, swollen eyes, lips pressed tight to keep from trembling. The black silk dress fits perfectly, but I feel like an imposter wearing it. Like I’ve stepped into someone else’s grief.
When the doors open, the scent of leather and cologne hits me first. The SUV waiting in the private garage gleams like polished obsidian. Cesaro opens the back door, and I slide inside, my pulse uneven.
The ride is silent except for the low hum of the city outside. Chicago looks muted under a heavy gray sky, the snow melting into slush along the curbs. Everything feels solemn, like even the world is holding its breath.
Cesaro drives with the kind of stillness that comes from years of discipline. The man doesn’t fidget, doesn’t glance at his phone, doesn’t speak unless spoken to.
“Were there many people invited?” I ask quietly.
He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Half the city,” he says. “The other half sent flowers.”
I nod again, fingers twisting in my lap. The answer doesn’t surprise me. This isn’t a normal funeral. It’s an event—one that will be watched, whispered about, analyzed. The daughter of a mafia Don doesn’t die without ripples.
When we pull up to the church, my chest tightens. It’s massive. Stone spires with stained glass windows that glow dimly against the overcast sky. Black cars line the street, men in suits at every entrance. The scent of incense drifts out as the doors open, carried by a chill wind.
Cesaro steps out first and circles the car to open my door. “He’s inside already,” he says softly.
“Lorenzo?”
He nods. “Front pew.”
I step out, the cold air biting at my skin, and follow Cesaro up the stone steps. Inside, the sound hits me first—low murmurs, shuffling feet, the soft rustle of fabric. The church is packed.
Every head turns when I walk in.
I’m not part of this world, but they all know who I am. The girl who lived when sweet Sienna died.
My steps falter near the aisle, but Cesaro’s hand rests lightly at my back, guiding me forward. And then I see him.
Lorenzo sits at the front, dressed in black, his hands clasped tight on his knees. He doesn’t look at me as I approach, but the grief radiating from him is a physical thing.
The coffin rests only a few feet away, surrounded by white roses. Sienna’s photo stands beside it: smiling, beautiful, alive.
I take a shaky breath and slide into the pew beside him.
For a long moment, we sit in silence. Then, without looking at me, Lorenzo says in a low voice, “She would’ve liked that dress.”
My throat burns.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “She would’ve.”
He finally looks at me then, and for the first time since that night, I see something human in his eyes. Not anger. Not power. Just a father breaking apart.
And somehow, that’s worse than anything else.
I reach out, taking his hand. He gives mine a tight squeeze and looks ahead.
I’m trying to think of something to say to comfort him when the sound of high heeled shoes comes our way. I look up to find Francesca glaring at me.
“You’re sitting in my spot.”
I start to move, but Lorenzo stops me by putting his hand on my knee.
“You can sit on the other side of me, Fran.”
“But it’s not proper. She’s not family.”
His head snaps up. “She was Sienna’s best friend.”
The words land like a blade against stone—sharp and final. Was. I was her best friend.
Francesca’s painted mouth tightens. “That may be true, but there’s decorum, Lorenzo. Appearances matter.”
“Not today,” he says quietly, and though his voice never rises, it silences everything around us.
The pew behind us goes still, every whisper fading as people realize they’re witnessing something they shouldn’t.
Francesca’s eyes flash, a mix of embarrassment and fury, but she doesn’t push again.
Instead, she exhales through her nose, smooths her black dress, and sits down on the other side of him, exactly as he told her to.
I can feel the tension radiating from her, sharp as broken glass. But I stay still, my hands folded in my lap, my fingers brushing Lorenzo’s once before he lets go of my leg.
The priest begins to speak, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling, but I barely hear the words. My gaze drifts to the coffin, to the photo of Sienna smiling at me from the front of the church.
I remember her laugh, loud and unfiltered. Her teasing grin when she she’d talk me into something I normally wouldn’t do on my own. The way she’d tug me into her world without asking if I wanted to go.
Now she’s gone, and I’m sitting beside the man she left behind. A man who’s unraveling quietly in front of hundreds of people, even if none of them can see it.
Beside me, Lorenzo’s hand tightens on his knee again. He’s stone-still, but every muscle in his jaw works like he’s grinding down rage he can’t show.
Francesca leans toward him slightly, her perfume heavy and cloying. “Darling, after the service, the reception—”
He cuts her off without looking at her. “Not now, Fran.”
His tone leaves no room for argument.