But somewhere beneath the fear, another thought begins to take shape and it’s impossible to ignore. If Lorenzo Conti can make the truth disappear with a single phone call… what else is he capable of?
Birdie? You still there?
Sorry. We’re about to take off. I’ll text when we land.
I hit send, then power off the phone, watching the screen fade to black. For a moment, I just sit there, the low hum of the jet vibrating through my bones.
I just lied to one of my friends. Sara’s probably staring at her phone right now, waiting for an answer that isn’t coming. And I did it without thinking, without even questioning it.
Why?
My fingers tighten around the edge of the seat. I tell myself it’s because it’s easier this way, that I don’t want to worry her more than she already is. But deep down, I know that’s not true.
I glance back.
Mr. Conti’s still watching me like he’s cataloging every breath I take.
I hold his dark gaze for a beat too long before looking away, my pulse kicking up despite the stillness around us. Outside, theonly thing left is sky and silence. And somewhere between the two, I realize that I’ve already started lying—not just to Sara, but to myself.
I don’t get to stew in my thoughts for long. The flight from Kansas City to Chicago is barely an hour and a half. Just enough time for the sky to shift from ink-black to bruised gray. I guess that’s the benefit of flying private: no lines, no waiting, no time to think too hard about what you’ve just agreed to.
By the time the jet begins its descent, my arm aches in a steady rhythm and my stomach is tight with exhaustion and nerves. I’m regretting every single shot of alcohol I took at the party and pray there’s some kind of food at Sienna’s house.
I press my forehead to the cold glass and watch as the clouds thin, revealing the city below. Chicago sprawls beneath us like a constellation made of streetlights and snow. The skyline rises out of the haze—sharp, cold, and beautiful in a way that feels almost cruel. As we drop lower, I catch the swirl of white outside the window. It’s snowing. Big, heavy flakes tumbling against the glass. It’s strange, how peaceful it looks, like the world is being quiet just for us.
But beneath that calm, I can feel the tension still humming in the air. The man sitting a few feet away could make cities bend, and I’m not sure if that makes me safer or more trapped.
When the wheels touch down, the jet gives a gentle jolt. Sienna claps her hands once, delighted. “Home sweet home!”
Home. For her, maybe. For me? I’m not sure what this place is yet.
The jet rolls to a smooth stop inside a private hangar. Through the window, I see five black SUVs lined up in a neat row, their engines running. Men in dark coats stand beside them, the kind of men who don’t fidget or look around. They stand guard and I’m sure if they were to open their coats I’d see the guns they carry.
The door opens with a rush of cold air, and snow swirls in, sharp against my face as I follow Sienna down the stairs. The hangar lights make the falling flakes shimmer, and for a second, it’s almost beautiful until one of the men steps forward and I spot the gun beneath his coat.
Mr. Conti moves past me, exchanging a few quiet words with one of them. I can’t hear what he says. Whatever world he lives in, it runs on quiet commands and immediate obedience.
“Come on,” Sienna says, looping her arm through mine as if we’re leaving brunch instead of stepping into a convoy. “You’ll love the penthouse. It’s huge, and the view’s insane.”
I nod, mostly because I don’t know what else to do.
A man opens the door of the middle SUV, and we climb in. The interior smells of leather and something faintly metallic. Sienna settles against the seat, already on her phone again. Mr. Conti sits in the front passenger seat, a tablet balanced on his knee, the blue light from the screen casting sharp lines across his face. The driver handed it to him as soon as he got inside.
No one speaks for the first few minutes. The convoy moves in tight formation through the city, headlights reflecting off the snow-slick streets. I watch the scenery change—industrial warehouses giving way to sleek glass towers and high-end boutiques. Chicago glows under a blanket of white, cold and distant, like a city built for ghosts.
Sienna eventually drifts off, her head lolling against the window. I can’t sleep. My eyes keep flicking to Mr. Conti and how still he is and how his silence fills the car.
When we finally pull into an underground garage, Sienna wakes up, smiling. Security cameras blink overhead. Two more men are waiting by an elevator, their expressions unreadable.
The elevator ride is silent except for the hum of machinery and my own pulse pounding in my ears.
When the doors open, I have to blink.
The penthouse looks like it belongs in a magazine—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, sleek black marble floors, soft lighting, not a speck of clutter in sight. A fire burns in a recessed hearth, its reflection dancing across glass and chrome.
Sienna says, “See? What did I tell you? It’s amazing, right?”
I nod faintly, stepping inside. My flats squeak against the marble.
