Chapter 10
Birdie
I wake up alone in the study, the fire burned down to embers. A blanket has been draped over me and for a disoriented second I think maybe I dreamed it all. The firelight, the quiet conversation, the weight of his arm around me.
But then I shift, and the faint scent of his cologne lingers in my hair. My stomach twists. It wasn’t a dream.
My first instinct is to get up and find Sienna, to tell her everything, to laugh about how strange her father is—
Then it hits me.
She’s gone.
The thought lands like a punch to the chest. My throat tightens and hot tears blur my vision before I can stop them. I press the blanket closer around me, trying to hold in the ache threatening to spill out.
When I finally manage to stand, the world feels heavy and muffled, like I’m walking through the remnants of a dream I don’t want to wake from. I pull the blanket tighter as I shiver and make my way toward the stairs, praying I can slip back to my room unnoticed.
But of course, my luck’s never that good.
Francesca stands in the foyer, poised and perfect in a pantsuit that probably costs more than my car. Her arms are crossed, one manicured eyebrow arching the moment she sees me.
“This isn’t your home,” she says, voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Perhaps you should take care with how you dress, especially with my fiancé being here.”
Her meaning is unmistakable.
I clutch the blanket tighter, the sting of shame and anger burning under my skin. There are a thousand things I want to say—that I didn’t do anything wrong, that I don’t want him, that all I want is to breathe without guilt clawing at my chest—but the words won’t come.
So I say nothing.
I just turn and walk past her, keeping my head high even as my heart hammers in my chest. Her perfume follows me up the stairs, sharp and suffocating.
By the time I reach my room, my hands are shaking. I shut the door, lock it, and slide down the back of it until I’m sitting on the cold floor. The silence presses in, heavy and hollow, like the air itself knows something’s missing.
I just want to go home.
Only, I don’t even know what that looks like anymore.
It’s not the apartment that’s soaked in blood and ghosts. Sara would let me stay with her, I know that. She’d feed me and talk too much just to fill the silence. But the thought of seeing her, of trying to explain any of this, makes my chest ache.
Maybe I could leave it all behind. Move out West like Sienna always said she would one day. Find somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one knows my name. But would I really be living for me… or for her?
I don’t have the answer. I’m not sure I ever will.
I stay on the floor until my side starts to ache and the numbness becomes unbearable. Slowly, I push myself up and go to the bathroom.
Today, according to the doctor’s notes, I can shower. It feels like a small mercy, especially since it feels like it’s been forever since I felt clean.
The wound on my arm throbs with dull, stubborn pain, but it’s nothing compared to the bruising on my ribs from the injury I got the night Sienna died. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and stop cold.
The jagged stitching and purple and yellow marks bloom across my side like a cruel reminder. Proof that I survived when Sienna didn’t. My throat tightens, and before I can stop it, tears spill over, hot and silent.
“How the hell am I still here?” I whisper.
The question echoes off the tiles and no answer comes.
In the shower, I move carefully, letting the water run over me.
The heat stings, then soothes, washing away the smell of hospital antiseptic and grief.
I close my eyes and let the steam blur the edges of everything until the world feels softer, less real.
For a few fragile minutes, I pretend none of it happened.
No gunfire, no screaming, no blood on my hands. Just warmth and water and breath.
When I step out, the mirror is fogged, and for once, I’m grateful not to see my reflection. I wrap a towel around myself and lean against the sink, breathing slowly until the shaking in my hands eases.
In my room, I let the towel fall and freeze. There’s blood on it. My stomach twists as I look down.
“Damn it,” I whisper, biting back a groan.
There’s dark blood seeping from the wound on my side, thin but steady. Did I tear a stitch? I grab a few tissues, pressing them hard against the spot. The pain flares, sharp and hot, radiating up my ribs.
“Great,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
I slip into panties and shorts, wincing at the pull of the fabric.
The bra is worse. I manage to fasten it, but every breath feels like fire licking my side.
I debate putting on a shirt, but the blood is already soaking through the towel I clutch to my ribs.
I settle for wrapping it around me tighter, hoping it will catch the worst of it.
When I open the door, the hallway yawns before me, long and silent. The lights are dimmed, the penthouse still asleep.
Lorenzo’s door is shut.
My fingers twitch on the towel. Is he in there? And if he is, is he alone?
For a moment, I just stand there, torn between common sense and the quiet, desperate thought that he might know what to do.
He always seems to know what to do. I take one hesitant step toward his door, then another.
The marble floor is cold beneath my feet, the only sound the faint hum of the city through the windows below.
When I reach his door, I lift my hand to knock and then stop. My heart is pounding too fast. I shouldn’t be here. I should call Rosa. I should—
A sound cuts through my panic.
His low voice, talking to someone on the phone.
I can’t make out the words as he speaks rapidly in Italian, just the sharp and commanding tone. It’s the voice of the man everyone else fears, the one that makes even his enemies obey.
But beneath it there’s something else. Weariness.
My breath catches, the pain in my side momentarily forgotten.
I take a step back, then another. Maybe I’ll wait. Maybe I’ll patch myself up and pretend I never—
The door opens.
And there he is.
Lorenzo stands in the doorway, barefoot and shirtless, wearing only the black slacks he had on earlier. There’s a phone still in his hand. His gaze drops immediately to the towel pressed against my side and the blood.
“Elizabeth,” he says, my name low and rough, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “You’re bleeding.”
“I—” I swallow, my voice trembling. “I took a shower. I think I might’ve torn a stitch.” I glance down at the towel and the dark bloom spreading slowly across the white and try not to panic. “I don’t know, though. Do you… do you think I should see a doctor?”
He studies me for a moment, his sharp eyes flicking over my face, then lower, assessing. The air between us feels charged and heavy.
Then he steps aside. “Come in. I’ll take a look at it.”
I hesitate in the doorway. “I don’t want to bother you—”
“You’re already here,” he says simply. “Come in.”
There’s no edge to it, just quiet authority that makes refusing impossible. I step inside.
The room smells faintly of whiskey and smoke. Papers are scattered across his desk, a gun disassembled neatly beside them. He crosses to the nightstand, pulling open a drawer and taking out a small black case.
I glance past him, unable to help myself.
His bed looks exactly the way I imagined it would.
Perfectly made, the sheets crisp and dark, and not a single wrinkle in sight.
The comforter is a deep charcoal gray, heavy and smooth, probably something absurdly expensive.
The pillows are lined up in precise symmetry, two large ones behind smaller accent pillows that look like no one’s ever actually slept on them.
The rest of the room matches — minimal, masculine, and deliberate. Dark wood. Clean lines. The faint scent of leather and his cologne clinging to the air. It feels less like a bedroom and more like a command center that happens to have a bed in it.
But there’s a softness here, too, buried beneath all that control. A folded blanket at the foot of the bed, a glass of water on the nightstand, a worn book beside it with the corner of a page turned down. Little things that don’t fit the image of the cold, unshakable man everyone else sees.
It’s strange. For a room that should intimidate me, it doesn’t. Instead, it feels like him. Strong. Careful. And unbearably lonely.
When he turns back, he gestures toward the edge of the bed.
“Sit.”
I do as he says, clutching the towel tighter to my ribs. My pulse beats so hard I can feel it in my throat.
He crouches in front of me, the first-aid kit open beside him. His movements are careful, practiced, and controlled. When his hand brushes the towel, I flinch.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “Let me see.”
I loosen my grip, and he peels the towel away slowly. I try not to think about the fact that he’s about to see my soft stomach. Hell, I bet he’s never seen a woman with meat on her bones.
The cool air hits my skin, followed by his low exhale.
“It’s not the stitches,” he says, examining the wound. “You pulled the skin around it. It’s bleeding, but it’ll stop.”
His fingers are steady as he cleans around the cut with antiseptic, but I can feel the heat of him even without contact. The contrast between the cool swab and the warmth of his nearness makes me shiver.
He glances up at me. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine,” I whisper, though my voice betrays me.
“Hold this.” He places a gauze pad over the wound and guides my hand to it, his touch lingering just a second too long. Then he wraps the bandage around my side, his knuckles brushing bare skin each time the fabric passes.
Neither of us speaks. The air feels thick enough to choke on.
When he finishes, he ties the end of the bandage neatly and sits back on his heels, looking up at me.
“There,” he says quietly. “Try not to move too much for a few days.”
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely audible.
He nods, but his gaze doesn’t leave mine. “If this happens again, find me.”
The words hit harder than they should. His tone isn’t angry, just certain like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I look away, gripping the edge of the towel. “I didn’t think you’d care.”
“I do.”
The words are quiet, but they land like a blow, almost impossible to ignore. The admission hangs between us, raw and real, neither of us sure what to do with it.
But then he looks away, jaw tightening, retreating into the safety of control. “Sienna would’ve killed me if anything happened to you.”
The ache in my throat turns to a bitter laugh. “Yeah. She probably would have.”
I stand, wiping at my eyes before the tears can fall.
“I think Sienna would’ve been fine without me. Me, on the other hand…” I shake my head, clutching the bloody towel. “Well, I can’t say the same.”
When I finally meet his gaze, it’s the kind of look that says too much and nothing at all.
“Thanks for helping me,” I whisper.
And, like a coward, I get out of the room as fast as I can.
By the time I reach my room, my chest feels tight, my throat raw.
I close the door, press my back to it, and finally let the tears fall.
For the first time since the night of the shooting, I don’t hold back.
I cry until my body aches, until my voice goes hoarse, until exhaustion finally drags me down into a restless sleep.
The next few days blur together. I don’t leave my room. Not once. Meals appear at my door, but I leave them untouched. Rosa knocks softly now and then, asking if I need anything, but I pretend to be asleep. The world outside my door keeps moving, but mine has stopped.
The wound on my side burns constantly now. At first, I tell myself it’s just healing. Then the skin around it grows hot, swollen. By the third morning, I wake to a pain so sharp it steals my breath.
I pull back the covers and look.
The bandage is soaked through, yellow and red. The smell hits me next, faint but wrong. Infection.
“God,” I whisper, clutching my stomach. Panic claws its way up my throat. I try to stand, but the room tilts. My legs give out and I sink back down onto the bed.
Everything feels slow and hazy. My skin is clammy, my heart racing.
Don’t pass out, I tell myself. Not here. Not like this.
I manage to grab my phone off the nightstand, but my fingers are shaking too badly to type. I think about calling for Rosa. For Cesaro. For anyone.
But all I can think is Lorenzo.
Too bad I don’t have any of their numbers.
I try to stand and that’s when I fall.
Darkness folds around me, heavy and soft. Then I see her.
Sienna.
She’s standing by the window of our old apartment, bathed in gold light. The air smells like cinnamon candles and cheap wine, exactly the way it used to.
“You look tired, Birdie,” she says, smiling that familiar, teasing smile. “You’ve been crying again.”
“I miss you,” I whisper.
“I know.” She steps closer, her outline flickering, light bleeding through her like smoke. “But you have to stop looking back. You have to live.”
The air hums. The light shifts.
When I blink, she’s gone and someone else stands in her place. Broader shoulders. A darker shadow.
Lorenzo.
He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me the way he always does, like he’s seeing too much. The grief in his eyes is the same one burning in my chest. When he reaches for me, the warmth of his touch feels almost real, his breath brushing my skin like a promise.
My heart stutters. The world blurs at the edges, a wash of heat and light and confusion.
And then, just as his face comes into focus, everything collapses back into darkness.