Chapter 9
Birdie
The penthouse is full of people by the time I arrive.
Not just people. Power.
Men in tailored suits, women draped in black silk and diamonds, their voices low and measured like every word is a secret worth selling. The air hums with whispered condolences and the faint clink of crystal glasses. It smells like money, grief, and perfume that costs more than I make in a month.
I slip in unnoticed, or at least I hope I do, staying close to the wall as I scan for a familiar face.
But I don’t see one. Rosa is nowhere. Cesaro is gone.
For a moment, I think I see Lorenzo—a tall figure with dark hair at the far end of the room—but before I can weave my way through the crowd, he disappears behind a small knot of men.
Everywhere I turn, people speak in hushed tones as I pass. Some look at me outright, curiosity thinly veiled behind politeness. Others whisper into their champagne glasses, their gazes glancing toward me and then away.
I don’t need to hear the words to know what they’re saying.
That’s her.
The friend.
The one who shouldn’t be here.
The room feels suddenly smaller, the air too thick.
I move toward the corridor, needing space and air and that’s when I come face to face with Francesca.
She’s flawless, of course. Not a single tear has dared smudge her mascara.
Her dress clings perfectly, black velvet hugging every cruel line of her body.
“Ah,” she says, her lips curving into something that pretends to be a smile. “The roommate.”
Her tone makes the word sound like parasite and the group of people she’s with take notice.
I straighten a little. “Yes. Birdie.”
“I know who you are,” she says smoothly. “You’ve become quite the topic today.”
I blink. “I didn’t realize I was.”
Her smile sharpens. “You were there when Sienna Conti died. People are naturally curious about what really happened. You know, things like whose idea was it to go out?”
The stabbing pain I feel at her words takes my breath away. How can she be so cruel?
“I already told the police everything I know.”
“Yes,” she purrs. “But you didn’t tell us.”
Before I can respond, she takes a graceful step closer. “You know, dear, Lorenzo doesn’t like surprises. And you seem to be one.”
My pulse skips, but I don’t look away. “I didn’t ask to be here.”
“No,” she agrees softly. “But here you are. In his home. While his daughter lies six feet in the ground.”
Her words are like a punch to the heart.
I take a step back to get away, but her friends move in closer so I can’t leave.
“Yes, honey,” a man says. “Tell us what happened to Sienna. I heard there was a dreadful amount of blood.”
Another woman adds, “I heard you were the target, not Sienna.”
My ears are ringing. Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the low murmur of the room—deep, commanding, and unmistakable.
“Fran.”
She freezes, her smile faltering for just a second.
Lorenzo stands a few feet away, his black suit immaculate, his expression unreadable. The crowd parts around him like the tide.
“Excuse us,” he says, his gaze locked on Francesca until she moves aside.
Then his eyes shift to me.
“Come with me, Elizabeth.”
My stomach flips, but I nod, brushing past Francesca and her friends without another glance. Is this it? Is there where he’s going to send me home? The thought gives me hope and terrifies me at the same time.
The air changes as soon as we step into the quieter hallway. And I can’t tell if it’s the silence that scares me or the way he keeps looking at me like I’m the next problem he has to solve. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks.
I follow, my boots clicking softly against the marble as the sounds of laughter and murmured gossip fade behind us. The further we go, the quieter it gets, until it’s just the two of us and the echo of our footsteps.
When we reach his study, he pushes the door open and waits for me to enter.
I hesitate, just for a second, before stepping inside.
The room smells like cedar and smoke, warm and masculine, every surface immaculate.
Bookshelves line the walls, and a decanter of amber liquor glows faintly in the firelight.
The door shuts behind me with a soft click.
Lorenzo takes off his jacket and drapes it across the back of a chair, the motion precise. Then he looks at me and I feel pinned in place.
“What did she say to you?”
His voice is quiet, but it vibrates with something that isn’t quite anger.
I swallow hard. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
There’s no room for evasion in that tone.
“She wanted to know what happened the night Sienna was killed,” I say finally, keeping my voice steady. “She and her friends asked whether I was supposed to die instead.”
His jaw tightens. The muscle flickers once, then stills. “And what did you tell them?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Because it’s not a story to tell at a wake.”
For a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, filled only by the low crackle of the fire. Then he exhales, slow and controlled, and moves toward the liquor cart.
“I warned her to stay out of it,” he mutters, pouring himself a drink. “But Fran never listens.”
He doesn’t offer me one, and I don’t ask.
“You shouldn’t have to endure that,” he says after a moment, still facing the fire. “This house… these people… they don’t know when to keep their mouths shut.”
“I can handle it,” I say quietly.
He turns then, glass in hand. “You shouldn’t have to.”
I shift, uneasy under his gaze. “You said I was supposed to be safe here. That no one would—”
“You are safe,” he cuts in. “No one here will touch you. No one outside will either. Not again.”
His voice drops lower, colder. The kind of tone that makes me believe him, even if I shouldn’t.
He takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes never leaving mine. “You should eat something. Then sleep. Rosa will see to it.”
“Is that an order, Mr. Conti?”
“It’s concern.” He pauses. “And I like it better when you call me Lorenzo.”
He sets the glass down and closes the distance between us until I can smell the faint scent of whiskey and smoke on his breath.
“Don’t let Fran’s words get under your skin,” he says softly. “She hates anything she can’t control.”
I manage a small, shaky smile. “I guess that makes two of you.”
For the first time in days, his expression changes and something flickers in his eyes, not anger exactly, but recognition. Maybe even the faintest trace of amusement.
He steps back, just enough to give me room to breathe. “Go to bed, Miss Miller.”
I nod and turn toward the door, but before I leave, I glance back once.
“I like it better when you call me Elizabeth.”
He’s still standing there by the fire, one hand on his glass, the light catching the edge of his profile. Grief has carved new lines into his face, but beneath them is something else. Something watchful, consuming, and impossible to name.
And as I walk back to my room, I realize that whatever this is between us it’s not going away. If anything, it’s tightening.
I wake up with a start in the middle of the night, my heart hammering and breath shallow. My skin is clammy from the nightmare. Visions of blood, bullet casings, and screams that sound too real to be dreams dance through my mind.
“Freaking hell,” I whisper, pushing the damp hair from my forehead. The sheets are twisted around my legs like restraints.
Sleep is out of the question. What I need is something stronger. Something that burns.
A glance at the clock tells me it’s nearly three. The penthouse is silent, heavy with the kind of quiet that follows funerals and unspoken things. Surely everyone’s asleep. No one will even know I got up.
I pad down the hallway barefoot wearing only my pink nightshirt, careful not to make a sound. The air is cool, carrying that faint, expensive scent that clings to every inch of this place. A scent that reminds me of Lorenzo.
The only light comes from the wide windows overlooking the city, the glow of the skyline painting everything in shades of blue and silver.
On the first floor, I head for the study. It’s the one place I know there’s alcohol.
The door is ajar, light spilling through the crack in a thin golden line. I push it open carefully, already rehearsing what I’ll say if I run into a guard.
But it’s not a guard.
It’s him.
Lorenzo sits on the leather couch, shirtless, a half-empty glass of amber whiskey dangling from his hand. The light from the fireplace throws sharp lines across his chest, catching on the tattoos that map his skin. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes flick up at the sound of my step.
He doesn’t seem surprised to see me.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say softly, hesitating by the door. “Do you mind if I get a drink?”
His gaze drifts to the decanter on the table, then back to me. “Help yourself.”
I move past him, hyperaware of every sound—the creak of the floorboards, the clink of glass as I pour. My hands shake a little, but I pretend not to notice.
The first sip burns, hard and clean.
“Guess we both had the same idea,” I murmur as I face him.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies me over the rim of his glass. “Nightmares?”
I nod. “It’s like I close my eyes and I’m right back there.”
“It never really leaves you. You just learn to live around it.”
The fire pops, scattering sparks. He sets his glass down, leaning back against the couch, the picture of control even now except for his eyes. They’re tired. Haunted, even.
“I keep thinking I could’ve done something different,” I say, my voice breaking despite me. “That maybe if I’d moved faster or shouted louder—”
“You couldn’t have saved her.” His voice cuts through my guilt before it can spiral. “Don’t carry my burden, Miss Miller.”
I look at him, at the man who hasn’t slept, hasn’t cracked or broken—not in public, anyway. “Maybe you should let someone carry it with you.”
For a moment, the silence between us hums with something I can’t name.
Then he says, almost to himself, “You sound like her.”
My throat tightens. “Sienna?”
He nods once, staring into the fire. “She never let me brood. Always had to remind me I was still human.”
The quiet stretches. I take another drink, feeling it slide warm and heavy through my veins.
“Do you ever wish you could go back?” I ask softly.
His gaze lifts to mine, steady and unflinching. “Every damn day.”
I can’t look away. Not from the grief in his face, not from the exhaustion in his eyes, not from the flicker of something dangerous threading through the air between us.
I set my glass down. “You should try to sleep.”
“You should, too.”
“I can’t.”
He studies me for a long moment before saying quietly, “Then stay.”
My pulse skips. “Here?”
He nods toward the couch beside him. “Just until you can.”
I hesitate for a moment before sitting. The heat from the fire wraps around us, the silence softer now. And for the first time in days, I don’t feel completely alone.
“Tell me about her,” he says after a while. “What did she like to do in Kansas City?”
I think for a moment.
“She liked to go line dancing on the weekend,” I say with a smile. “I always teased her that she had a thing for cowboys.”
Without thinking, I rub the spot over my heart that hurts.
“I keep thinking I should text our friends but I don’t know what to say.”
He says, “You can’t text them. Not until this is finished.”
“Will it be finished?” I ask, my gaze meeting his.
The question hangs in the air between us, fragile as glass.
Lorenzo looks into the fire for a long time before he answers. “It never really is.”
The flickering light paints his face in gold and shadow. He looks older tonight. “You can stop the bleeding,” he continues quietly, “but the wound? That stays. You just learn to live around it.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that,” I whisper.
He glances at me then, eyes dark and steady. “Because it’s true.”
“I don’t think I know how to do that yet.”
“You will,” he says. “You’re stronger than you think.”
The words catch me off guard. No one’s ever said that to me and meant it.
“Maybe,” I murmur. “But I’d trade all the strength in the world to undo what happened.”
He exhales, long and quiet. “So would I.”
The fire crackles, a log shifting in the hearth.
I glance at him again, at the way the light glows against his tattoos.
I shouldn’t be looking, but I can’t stop.
There’s something heartbreakingly human about him right now—this man who commands a room with a single word, sitting in silence, stripped of all his armor.
He catches me looking, and for a heartbeat neither of us looks away. The air thickens.
Then, softly, he breaks the spell. “Elizabeth.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t text anyone,” he says, the authority slipping back into his voice. “You don’t call. You don’t leave this house until I say it’s safe.”
My pulse stutters. “And if I don’t agree to that?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Then I’ll keep you here anyway.”
There’s no threat in his tone, just certainty. The kind that comes from a man who’s used to being obeyed.
I swallow hard. “You can’t control everything, Lorenzo.”
He gives the faintest, hollow smile. “I can try.”
I set my glass down, forcing myself to stand. “Goodnight.”
“Wait.”
The word lands soft but heavy, stopping me mid-step. I turn and find him looking up at me.
“Will you stay with me a bit longer?” he asks, voice low, roughened by exhaustion and something else I can’t name.
He pats the spot beside him.
My lips part. Does he want me to sit that close? The thought makes my pulse flutter, but there’s something in his eyes—loneliness, not lust—that breaks my hesitation. Slowly, I lower myself onto the couch beside him.
The leather sighs under our weight. A beat passes, and then his arm moves, resting lightly along the back of the couch before sliding around my shoulders. The warmth of him seeps through my thin nightshirt, solid and grounding.
He pulls me closer, carefully, as if afraid I’ll bolt. I don’t. I can’t. My head finds his shoulder like it belongs there. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of whiskey and smoke… it’s all strangely comforting.
And then he surprises me by resting his head on mine.
The air shifts. The fire crackles softly, painting our shadows across the floor. For a long time, neither of us speaks. We just sit there, two broken pieces of the same night, fitting together in silence.
His breathing evens out first, slower, steadier. Mine follows.
It feels dangerous, this closeness. Like standing on the edge of something I shouldn’t want. But for now, I let it be.
Because for the first time since the gunfire and blood, I don’t feel haunted. I just feel human.