“You’re alive because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The men who came after Sienna didn’t care who else got in the way. You think if I let you walk out that door, they won’t finish what they started?”
My throat tightens. “The police said?—”
“I paid the police,” he interrupts quietly, his tone sharp enough to cut. “So no one would ask questions that could get my daughter killed.”
The truth of it hangs there between us, heavy and absolute.
“I’m not a prisoner, then?” I manage.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes dark and steady. “You’re a guest. But I suggest you don’t mistake my hospitality for permission.”
I hold his gaze, refusing to back down even as my pulse races. “And if I decide to leave anyway?”
That smile again, but this time it’s dangerous. “Then I’ll have to make sure you don’t.”
The silence stretches, thick with things neither of us say.
Finally, he rises from the table, buttoning his vest with practiced precision that’s far too sexy.
“The staff will make sure you have everything you need. Rest. Eat. Heal.” He pauses at the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. “And stop looking for exits, Miss Miller. There aren’t any.”
He leaves and I sink back into my chair. Holy shit. Why is he so intense?
After the encounter with Mr. Conti, I’m more than ready to get out of the house. The walls of the penthouse feel too close, like the whole place is holding its breath, waiting for me to do something wrong. And I don’t like it. Not one bit.
I think about asking Sienna what in the hell is going on, but that hope dies the second I see the men waiting by the elevator.Two of them, dressed in black coats, earpieces glinting against their collars. They don’t smile. They don’t even blink. Heck, I wonder if they’re even human.
Rosa’s waiting beside them. “Mr. Conti insisted you take his personal SUV,” she says pleasantly, as if that’s a normal sentence to say. “And that someone accompany you wherever you go.”
“Someone?” I echo even though the answer is standing right in front of me.
Sienna rolls her eyes, tugging her gloves on. “Don’t make that face, Birdie. Dad’s paranoid. He always sends security with me when I’m home. You’ll get used to it.”
I won’t. I know I won’t.
Still, I follow her into the elevator. The two guards step in after us, filling the small space with silent authority. Their reflections in the mirrored walls make the cabin feel even smaller, especially when I see their guns.
“Where exactly are we going?” I ask as we descend.
Sienna grins. “The Magnificent Mile. You need clothes, and I need real caffeine.”
The elevator doors slide open to reveal another SUV waiting in the private garage, engine idling. One guard opens the door while the other scans the area like we’re about to be ambushed. I force a shaky breath and climb in. What in the heck kind of world does Lorenzo Conti rule over to live like this? And do I even want to know?
The ride through the city is surreal. Chicago is blanketed in snow, morning light bouncing off glass and steel, Christmas decorations clinging to streetlamps. People hurry along sidewalks bundled in coats, living their lives. And here I am, in the back of a bulletproof SUV with more armed men following in another vehicle, wondering how this became mine.
Sienna’s chattering beside me about stores and coffee shops and a new bakery she wants to try. I nod when I’m supposedto, but I can’t stop staring at the man in the passenger seat. His hand never strays far from the weapon holstered at his side.
The store Sienna takes me to looks more like a museum than a place that sells clothes. Everything gleams—polished marble floors, gold racks spaced far apart, dresses displayed like art. The air smells faintly of jasmine and wealth.
The moment we walk in, an employee greets Sienna by name. “Miss Conti, welcome back. Your father called ahead. I’ve selected some items for both you and Miss Miller.”
Of course he called ahead.
Sienna beams. “Thanks, Marla. We’ll just look around.”
She drags me toward the back, pulling dresses off racks with the enthusiasm of someone who’s never had to check a price tag. I let her, but my stomach twists with every glance from the discreet security stationed by the door.
By the time we make it to the fitting rooms, my arms are full of silk and cashmere and fabrics I don’t dare spill coffee on. Sienna follows me into the largest stall, tossing her own pile onto the bench.
