That has me pausing.
I need to stop having thoughts likethatabout him. He’s Sienna’s father, for crying out loud. It’ll never work between us. In reality, I’m probably having these feelings because he saved us. That’s it. End of story. There’s nothing else there. Period.
So why do I glance back at his door one last time?
The penthouse is quiet as we slip into the private elevator. My pulse pounds as the doors glide open into the underground garage, where the sleek black car waits under the low hum of fluorescent lights.
The driver—one of Lorenzo’s men, I recognize him from earlier—opens the door for us, his gaze going from Sienna to me and back again. He doesn’t say a word.
Sienna flashes him a dazzling smile. “We won’t be long.”
He hesitates but nods, like even he knows better than to argue with her.
I slide in beside her, the leather cold against my skin. As the doors shut, I glance once more at the elevator doors, halfexpecting them to open and reveal Lorenzo standing there, all dark eyes and command, telling us to go back upstairs.
But they stay closed and for some reason I’m kind of disappointed.
We ride across town, the city sliding past in a blur of white and gold—holiday lights strung across trees, snow glinting in the streetlamps, and laughter spilling from restaurant doors. The car drops us off a few blocks from the Magnificent Mile, just like Sienna promised.
From there, we call an Uber, and for the first time since arriving in Chicago, it feels like we’re two normal twenty-two-year-olds again. No guards. No orders. No Lorenzo Conti’s shadow stretching over us. The driver drops us in front of the old library-turned-club, its grand stone façade glowing with strings of warm lights.
Inside, the space is alive—music pounding, bass vibrating through the marble floors, the air thick with perfume and heat. Sienna grins at me like she’s home. Within seconds we’re handed red plastic cups by a guy who looks barely old enough to be here.
“Welcome,” he shouts over the music.
Sienna takes a generous sip and makes a pleased noise. “Come on, Birdie. Live a little.”
I eye the drink warily, then take a tentative sip. It burns all the way down, syrupy-sweet and strong. The crowd moves like a tide around us—people laughing, dancing between shelves that still hold rows of old, dust-coated books. The scent of leather and spilled beer mix in the air, both intoxicating and right.
Sienna’s already tugging me deeper into the crowd, her golden dress catching the light like a lure. I follow, my pulse thudding in time with the music. For a while, I let myself get swept up in it. The rhythm, the heat, the brief illusion of being free.
Someone calls Sienna’s name, loud enough to rise over the music thumping through the building. She lights up instantly and I’m introduced to a group of girls whose names I’ll never remember who all have bright smiles and wear sparkling dresses that catch the light every time they move. They match Sienna’s vibe, but don’t make me feel less than. Instead, I find myself laughing at a joke one of them tells.
We cheer as someone passes around another tray of drinks. It’s pink cocktails with sugar rims and a ridiculous amount of glitter floating inside. It’s the kind of drinks you’d only let yourself enjoy at a club like this. Someone jokes we’ll all have glittery pee in the morning, making us all laugh again.
It’s wild seeing Sienna in her element.
Here, surrounded by people who know her stories, her inside jokes, her embarrassing childhood moments… she’s electric. These girls are from her world. They match her energy, her rhythm, and her effortless confidence in a way I never did.
But there’s no resentment in me. No jealousy. Just a warm, grounding sort of pride. Because for once, I get to see her exactly as she is when she’s not dimming herself for anyone else.
And it’s great— the music, the laughter, the glittering lights reflecting off every surface. Everything feels easy and perfect. At least for the moment.
Because none of us know the chaos that’s about to collide with this perfect little bubble and blow it wide open.
It starts with a shift in the air. It’s the same shift you get when you’re walking alone, in the dark. Like someone’s watching us.
I can’t see who at first, but the hairs on my arms lift, instinct kicking in. I turn slightly, scanning the crowd but there are too many strangers, too many smiles that don’t reach their eyes. My head spins. Was the drink really the strong?
“Sienna,” I say, leaning close so she can hear me over the noise. “Maybe we should?—”
But she just laughs, tossing her hair, already lost in the pulse of the music. Her gold dress flashes under the lights as she turns away, and for a second I almost smile until I notice the man watching her from the mezzanine above.
He’s not dancing. Not drinking. Just standing there looking right at us. He’s older than most of the guys here, too, which makes him stand out.
And then another man joins him.
My stomach drops. Something about the way they move screams wrong.
