Sienna.
The shooting.
The blood.
It’s been three days since she was murdered, and I think I’m slowly slipping into depression. Or madness. Maybe both.
No one speaks to me. Hell, no one evenlooksat me. The maids come and go like ghosts, silent and quick, their eyes fixed anywhere but on me. It’s like Lorenzo told them to pretend I don’t exist, and they agreed without hesitation.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I could at least see him, but I haven’t since he asked me to pick out a dress for her. That last momentreplays over and over. Me handing him the black dress I thought Sienna would have liked, the way he took it from me without a word, his eyes hollow and unreadable. How our fingers brushed. Then he was gone.
But I’ll see him today.
Today is her funeral.
The house is alive in a way that feels wrong. There’s movement everywhere, muted footsteps, and the low murmur of voices. Men in suits pass the doorway every few minutes, their presence reminding me that Lorenzo Conti doesn’t just bury a daughter—he buries a legacy, and the entire city shows up to bow their heads.
I lift my phone, scrolling through old texts from Sienna. There’s one where she sent me a photo of us in front of the fountain at school.Look at us,she’d written.Future Real Housewives of Kansas City.
My throat tightens. I scroll further, to messages from our friends who have no idea what happened. Part of me wonders if I should tell them. What would I even say?
Sienna’s dead. We snuck out to go to a club, and someone shot her.
The words form in my head, heavy and poisonous. I don’t type them. I can’t.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
When I open it, Rosa stands there in black, her eyes puffy from crying. She holds out a folded dress.
“For the service,” she says softly. “You’ll head to the church at eleven.”
It’s simple. Elegant. Black silk with a modest neckline.
Lorenzo must have known that my other black dress was the dress I wore to the club that night. My eyes water and I have to blink away the tears.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Rosa hesitates like she wants to say something, then only nods and disappears down the hall.
I close the door and press the dress to my chest.
Today, I have to stand beside a man I barely know and pretend I belong here. Pretend the weight in my chest isn’t crushing me with every breath. Pretend I don’t feel like an intruder in a world that shattered the moment Sienna took her last breath.
And worst of all I have to pretend I don’t wish it had been me.
The truth burns beneath my ribs like a secret I’m too ashamed to speak aloud. Because every time I close my eyes, I see her smile. Her gold dress. Her laughter. The light she carried so effortlessly.
Sienna had a future. A life. People who loved her long before I ever stumbled into the picture.
And me? I was a bystander caught in the wrong place in the wrong moment. A shadow compared to her brightness. When the bullet tore through her world, part of me still believes it should’ve torn through mine instead.
So I stand here in borrowed clothes and borrowed strength, forcing myself to breathe while grief gnaws at me from the inside.
Pretending—because that’s all I have left—that I’m strong enough to stay upright when every part of me is wishing I could trade places with the girl who deserved so much more than the ending she got.
More tears fill my eyes, but somehow I manage to dress. I’m in the foyer with moments to spare, but Lorenzo is nowhere in sight. A man steps forward.
“I’m Cesaro, Lorenzo’sCapo. I’ll be driving you to the church, Ms. Miller.”
