“Please call me Birdie.”
He dips his head and motions for me to get on the elevator.
“Is… how is Lorenzo?” My voice feels thin, like it’s barely making it past my throat.
Cesaro’s eyes flick toward me, guarded. “Like you’d expect,” he says, his tone clipped but not unkind. “He’s not sleeping.”
I nod, but the gesture feels inadequate.
Of course Lorenzo’s not sleeping. How could he? Sleep belongs to people whose world hasn’t been ripped apart. People who haven’t had to plan their child’s funeral. People who aren’t being held together by anger and grief and the sheer force of will required not to collapse in front of their men.
I picture him alone in his study, firelight flickering over the empty room, echoes of where Sienna’s laughter used to be. Her things are still untouched in her room. Her absence louder than any gunshot.
Of course he isn’t sleeping. And nothing about that surprises me.
The elevator hums softly as it descends. My reflection in the mirrored wall looks like someone else—pale skin, swollen eyes, lips pressed tight to keep from trembling. The black silk dress fits perfectly, but I feel like an imposter wearing it. Like I’ve stepped into someone else’s grief.
When the doors open, the scent of leather and cologne hits me first. The SUV waiting in the private garage gleams like polished obsidian. Cesaro opens the back door, and I slide inside, my pulse uneven.
The ride is silent except for the low hum of the city outside. Chicago looks muted under a heavy gray sky, the snow melting into slush along the curbs. Everything feels solemn, like even the world is holding its breath.
Cesaro drives with the kind of stillness that comes from years of discipline. The man doesn’t fidget, doesn’t glance at his phone, doesn’t speak unless spoken to.
“Were there many people invited?” I ask quietly.
He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Half the city,” he says. “The other half sent flowers.”
I nod again, fingers twisting in my lap. The answer doesn’t surprise me. This isn’t a normal funeral. It’s an event—one that will be watched, whispered about, analyzed. The daughter of a mafia Don doesn’t die without ripples.
When we pull up to the church, my chest tightens. It’s massive. Stone spires with stained glass windows that glow dimly against the overcast sky. Black cars line the street, men in suits at every entrance. The scent of incense drifts out as the doors open, carried by a chill wind.
Cesaro steps out first and circles the car to open my door. “He’s inside already,” he says softly.
“Lorenzo?”
He nods. “Front pew.”
I step out, the cold air biting at my skin, and follow Cesaro up the stone steps. Inside, the sound hits me first—low murmurs, shuffling feet, the soft rustle of fabric. The church is packed.
Every head turns when I walk in.
I’m not part of this world, but they all know who I am. The girl who lived when sweet Sienna died.
My steps falter near the aisle, but Cesaro’s hand rests lightly at my back, guiding me forward. And then I see him.
Lorenzo sits at the front, dressed in black, his hands clasped tight on his knees. He doesn’t look at me as I approach, but the grief radiating from him is a physical thing.
The coffin rests only a few feet away, surrounded by white roses. Sienna’s photo stands beside it: smiling, beautiful, alive.
I take a shaky breath and slide into the pew beside him.
For a long moment, we sit in silence. Then, without looking at me, Lorenzo says in a low voice, “She would’ve liked that dress.”
My throat burns.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “She would’ve.”
He finally looks at me then, and for the first time since that night, I see something human in his eyes. Not anger. Not power. Just a father breaking apart.
