Mr. Conti removes his coat and drapes it over a chair before turning to one of the men who followed us in.
“Have someone bring up food and coffee.” His gaze slides back to me. “You look like you could use both.”
He’s not wrong, but I don’t answer. I just stand there, taking it all in. The warmth, the view, the quiet power that hums in the air like electricity.
“Come on, Birdie. I’ll show you the guest room.”
I follow Sienna up the sweeping staircase, my fingers brushing the polished railing as I go. The penthouse is silent except for the soft hum of the city outside.
Halfway up, I can’t help myself. I glance back.
Mr. Conti’s still downstairs, standing near the fireplace. The light from the flames glows against his face, turning the hard lines of his features into something dangerously compelling. He’s watching me and, for a moment, our eyes meet.
It’s nothing, just a second too long, but it makes my pulse skip. I look away quickly, pretending to focus on the artwork lining the hallway.
Sienna’s still chattering ahead of me, oblivious. “You’ll love it. It’s bigger than our old dorm room. Dad keeps the house staff out of this floor, so you’ll actually have privacy. Oh! And the shower has like five different settings.”
I nod, but I’m barely listening. My mind’s still downstairs with him.
I don’t know what unsettles me more. The memory of gunfire and blood still fresh in my head… or the way Lorenzo Conti’s gaze makes me feel seen in a way that’s almost worse.
4
Birdie
I wake up disoriented, the room spinning in slow, uneven waves. For a moment I can’t remember where I am. The ceiling’s too high, the sheets too soft, and everything is too quiet.
Then the pain hits. A sharp, burning throb in my arm that brings everything crashing back—the party, the gunshots, the smell of blood and smoke. Mikel’s body. Dave’s empty eyes. Chicago.
Lorenzo Conti.
I exhale shakily and push myself upright, the movement tugging at the wound until spots flicker at the edge of my vision. The guest room around me is dim, quiet, and too elegant to feel real. The clock on my phone shows it’s only nine in the morning, which means I dozed off for a few hours after Sienna left me.
I make my way to the bathroom, one careful step at a time. The floor is cool under my feet, the light soft and golden when I flick it on. For a second, I just stare at my reflection. My skin is pale, tangled hair, and I have dark circles like bruises beneath my eyes. The instructions said not to get my arm wet, but I canchange the bandage today. I unwrap the dressing slowly, teeth clenched as the gauze sticks in places. A hiss slips through my teeth when pain shoots through my arm, hot and deep.
The doctor had said I was lucky that the bullet went straight through my deltoid. No nerve damage. No bone shattered. Just torn flesh and time.
Lucky.
Funny how survival can hurt more than the wound itself.
I rinse my good hand under the faucet, splash water on my face, and catch my reflection again. I still look like me, but it feels like whoever I was before that night didn’t make it out of Kansas City.
A soft knock breaks through the silence, startling me so badly I nearly drop the roll of gauze.
“Ms. Miller?” a woman’s voice calls gently from the other side of the bedroom door. “May I come in?”
I hesitate, glancing at my half-wrapped arm, then pull the sleeve of my borrowed scrub top over it as I walk back into the bedroom. “Uh—yeah. Come in.”
The door opens to reveal a woman in her forties, dressed in a crisp black uniform with a white collar. Her dark hair is pulled into a bun so tight it barely moves when she nods. Balanced on her arm is a tray—folded clothes stacked neatly beside a small container of pills and a glass of orange juice.
“Good morning,” she says softly, her accent faint but elegant. “Mr. Conti asked that you have these when you woke. Breakfast will be ready soon.”
I blink, still trying to shake the fog from my head. “You—you work for him?”
“Yes, Miss. My name is Rosa. If you need anything while you’re here, you ask for me.” She sets the tray on the edge of the bed and gestures to the pills. “Pain medication and antibiotics. With food, preferably. And these”—she nods to the folded stack—“are fresh clothes. Mr. Conti said you’d prefer something comfortable.”
I glance down. On top is a soft ivory sweater and a pair of black leggings that look far too nice to be loungewear. The shocking thing is it looks to be exactly my size.
