He dips his head once, the faintest acknowledgment, and opens the door of another vehicle.
I slide inside without another word, the door closing behind me like the final note of a hymn.
Outside, Lorenzo’s SUV pulls away first, the convoy following in smooth, silent formation. I watch the red taillights fade into the falling snow and tell myself the chill crawling up my spine is only from the wind.
But deep down, I know better.
Something shifted back there at the grave.
Something that shouldn’t have and can’t be undone.
9
Birdie
The penthouse is full of people by the time I arrive.
Not just people. Power.
Men in tailored suits, women draped in black silk and diamonds, their voices low and measured like every word is a secret worth selling. The air hums with whispered condolences and the faint clink of crystal glasses. It smells like money, grief, and perfume that costs more than I make in a month.
I slip in unnoticed, or at least I hope I do, staying close to the wall as I scan for a familiar face. But I don’t see one. Rosa is nowhere. Cesaro is gone. For a moment, I think I see Lorenzo—a tall figure with dark hair at the far end of the room—but before I can weave my way through the crowd, he disappears behind a small knot of men.
Everywhere I turn, people speak in hushed tones as I pass. Some look at me outright, curiosity thinly veiled behind politeness. Others whisper into their champagne glasses, their gazes glancing toward me and then away.
I don’t need to hear the words to know what they’re saying.
That’s her.
The friend.
The one who shouldn’t be here.
The room feels suddenly smaller, the air too thick. I move toward the corridor, needing space and air and that’s when I come face to face with Francesca. She’s flawless, of course. Not a single tear has dared smudge her mascara. Her dress clings perfectly, black velvet hugging every cruel line of her body.
“Ah,” she says, her lips curving into something that pretends to be a smile. “The roommate.”
Her tone makes the word sound like parasite and the group of people she’s with take notice.
I straighten a little. “Yes. Birdie.”
“I know who you are,” she says smoothly. “You’ve become quite the topic today.”
I blink. “I didn’t realize I was.”
Her smile sharpens. “You were there when Sienna Conti died. People are naturally curious about whatreallyhappened. You know, things like whose idea was it to go out?”
The stabbing pain I feel at her words takes my breath away. How can she be so cruel?
“I already told the police everything I know.”
“Yes,” she purrs. “But you didn’t tell us.”
Before I can respond, she takes a graceful step closer. “You know, dear, Lorenzo doesn’t like surprises. And you seem to be one.”
My pulse skips, but I don’t look away. “I didn’t ask to be here.”
“No,” she agrees softly. “But here you are. In his home. While his daughter lies six feet in the ground.”
