And somehow, that’s worse than anything else.
I reach out, taking his hand. He gives mine a tight squeeze and looks ahead.
I’m trying to think of something to say to comfort him when the sound of high heeled shoes comes our way. I look up to find Francesca glaring at me.
“You’re sitting in my spot.”
I start to move, but Lorenzo stops me by putting his hand on my knee.
“You can sit on the other side of me, Fran.”
“But it’s not proper. She’s not family.”
His head snaps up. “She was Sienna’s best friend.”
The words land like a blade against stone—sharp and final.Was. I was her best friend.
Francesca’s painted mouth tightens. “That may be true, but there’s decorum, Lorenzo. Appearances matter.”
“Not today,” he says quietly, and though his voice never rises, it silences everything around us.
The pew behind us goes still, every whisper fading as people realize they’re witnessing something they shouldn’t. Francesca’s eyes flash, a mix of embarrassment and fury, but she doesn’t push again. Instead, she exhales through her nose, smooths her black dress, and sits down on the other side of him, exactly as he told her to.
I can feel the tension radiating from her, sharp as broken glass. But I stay still, my hands folded in my lap, my fingers brushing Lorenzo’s once before he lets go of my leg.
The priest begins to speak, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling, but I barely hear the words. My gaze drifts to thecoffin, to the photo of Sienna smiling at me from the front of the church.
I remember her laugh, loud and unfiltered. Her teasing grin when she she’d talk me into something I normally wouldn’t do on my own. The way she’d tug me into her world without asking if I wanted to go.
Now she’s gone, and I’m sitting beside the man she left behind. A man who’s unraveling quietly in front of hundreds of people, even if none of them can see it.
Beside me, Lorenzo’s hand tightens on his knee again. He’s stone-still, but every muscle in his jaw works like he’s grinding down rage he can’t show.
Francesca leans toward him slightly, her perfume heavy and cloying. “Darling, after the service, the reception?—”
He cuts her off without looking at her. “Not now, Fran.”
His tone leaves no room for argument.
I glance at him, and in that moment, I understand something with perfect, terrifying clarity. Lorenzo Conti isn’t a man people contradict. Not in business. Not in grief. Not even in love.
The rest of the service passes in a blur of prayers, hymns, and stifled sobs. When it ends, Lorenzo stands first. His presence alone commands attention—men straighten, women avert their eyes. He doesn’t speak, just reaches down and offers me his hand.
I take it.
Francesca’s glare could set the entire church ablaze, but Lorenzo doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.
He leads me down the aisle through the sea of black suits and somber faces, every step echoing like a heartbeat.
Outside, the wind is sharp enough to sting, carrying the faint scent of roses and snow. The waiting vehicles gleam in the gray morning light. Lorenzo doesn’t stop walking until we’re halfway to the line of vehicles.
Then, under his breath, so low only I can hear, he says, “I want you beside me for the burial.”
I look up at him, startled. “Lorenzo, I?—”
“She would have wanted that,” he says simply.
And somehow, I believe him.
