Her words are like a punch to the heart.
I take a step back to get away, but her friends move in closer so I can’t leave.
“Yes, honey,” a man says. “Tell us what happened to Sienna. I heard there was a dreadful amount of blood.”
Another woman adds, “I heard you were the target, not Sienna.”
My ears are ringing. Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the low murmur of the room—deep, commanding, and unmistakable.
“Fran.”
She freezes, her smile faltering for just a second.
Lorenzo stands a few feet away, his black suit immaculate, his expression unreadable. The crowd parts around him like the tide.
“Excuse us,” he says, his gaze locked on Francesca until she moves aside.
Then his eyes shift to me.
“Come with me, Elizabeth.”
My stomach flips, but I nod, brushing past Francesca and her friends without another glance. Is this it? Is there where he’s going to send me home? The thought gives me hope and terrifies me at the same time.
The air changes as soon as we step into the quieter hallway. And I can’t tell if it’s the silence that scares me or the way he keeps looking at me like I’m the next problem he has to solve. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks.
I follow, my boots clicking softly against the marble as the sounds of laughter and murmured gossip fade behind us. The further we go, the quieter it gets, until it’s just the two of us and the echo of our footsteps.
When we reach his study, he pushes the door open and waits for me to enter. I hesitate, just for a second, before stepping inside. The room smells like cedar and smoke, warm and masculine, every surface immaculate. Bookshelves line thewalls, and a decanter of amber liquor glows faintly in the firelight.
The door shuts behind me with a soft click.
Lorenzo takes off his jacket and drapes it across the back of a chair, the motion precise. Then he looks at me and I feel pinned in place.
“What did she say to you?”
His voice is quiet, but it vibrates with something that isn’t quite anger.
I swallow hard. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
There’s no room for evasion in that tone.
“She wanted to know what happened the night Sienna was killed,” I say finally, keeping my voice steady. “She and her friends asked whether I was supposed to die instead.”
His jaw tightens. The muscle flickers once, then stills. “And what did you tell them?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Because it’s not a story to tell at a wake.”
For a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, filled only by the low crackle of the fire. Then he exhales, slow and controlled, and moves toward the liquor cart.
“I warned her to stay out of it,” he mutters, pouring himself a drink. “But Fran never listens.”
He doesn’t offer me one, and I don’t ask.
“You shouldn’t have to endure that,” he says after a moment, still facing the fire. “This house… these people… they don’t know when to keep their mouths shut.”
“I can handle it,” I say quietly.
