Page 3 of Heartless Union

It’s just as I remember—tacky marble floors. Gold, cheap-looking chandeliers. Animal print patterned furniture. It’s true what they say—money doesn’t buy taste, and my father’s taste is horrendous.

Gabriella takes her shoes off and throws them on the ground.

I raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to pick those up?”

She stares at me with one hand on her hip. She’s has always exuded sass. When she was a toddler, she was the quick to snap back at anyone, and that hasn’t changed. “Why would I? That’s what we have a maid for.”

“Show some respect to the staff, Gabriella. Pick up your shoes and place them neatly by the door.”

She puckers up her face like she’s actually considering it, but then she shrugs and says, “Nope. I’m good. You can pick them up if you like.” Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she sashays into the living room.

With a sigh, I pick up her shoes and straighten them by the door before joining her. “When did you become such a brat?”

“Since Mom died,” she says bluntly. Huh. I guess we have more in common than I thought.

“That’s no excuse,” I tell her.

“I think it is.” She leans back on the couch and stretches her arms over her head. “It hasn’t been easy for me, Rocco.”

“And you think it has for me?”

“You’re a man. You can go where you want. Do what you want. Talk to whoever you want. You have no rules placed on you.”

“I do. Father bosses me around like he does any other employee. I know what it’s like to feel trapped.”

“Then you should show a bit more compassion to me.” She looks away from me and turns on the TV.

“You just said you wanted us to work on our relationship.”

“And I do. But right now, you’re annoying me.” She flips through channels. “And I’d rather be alone to cry over Mom.”

I blink, taken aback. We’re not an emotionally open family. We don’t talk about crying. At our mom’s funeral, my brothers and I didn’t shed a tear. Gabriella began to cry, but Father told her to stop.

I can’t remember the last time I cried.

I leave Gabriella alone with her emotions. She can be just so … well, emotional sometimes about things. It’s exhausting. I don’t always get my sister.

I don’t always get women in general.

I’ve had my fair share of one-night stands. I know what women like in the bedroom, but when it comes to matters of the heart, I’m clueless. And honestly, I don’t care to learn. If someone doesn’t know how to control their feelings, that’s on them. Not me. Gabriella told me to show her compassion, but I don’t believe in that.

I believe in protecting the people I love. But empathizing with them? What’s the point? Empathy won’t get me anywhere with my father. Empathy won’t make me leader of the New York Mafia.

I pass by a photo of my parents in the hall. It’s a huge picture that takes up most of the wall. That’s my father for you. He loves making himself the center of attention.

My brothers and I look a lot like our father. From our dark hair to our strong features, we’re our father’s sons, all right. But Gabriella looks just like our mother. Soft brown eyes, long brown hair, a slightly innocent expression mixed with a hint of a secret like they know something no one else knows.

“Rocco?”

My father’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts.

I turn to face him as he walks down the hall toward me. “Father.”

He’s aged since the photo was taken. Where there was once black hair, it’s now gray. Where there was once smooth skin, it’s now wrinkled. My dad is a smoker, and it’s taken a toll on his face.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. Before I can even open my mouth to answer, he continues, “It’s good to see you. I was going to reach out soon. There’s something I want to tell you.”

That’s always annoyed me about my father—he’ll ask a question and then immediately start talking. He doesn’t care about your answer. He just wants to hear himself talk and pretend he’s a good man by asking how you are.

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