Page 19 of Remy

“We’re already losing them. Why not do it while making a statement that everyone on this side of the country will hear?”

Lorenzo massages his chin. Pondering. Scrutinizing. Until finally he drags in a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll allow it.” He takes another drink from his tumbler. “But let me be clear, you will be the one who handles any backlash.”

Salvatore squares his shoulders. “I’m ready.”

I dump my cutlery again with another eye roll and shove my plate away.

My brother is not ready.

He’ll never be ready.

We come from a background in the fashion business—a barely legitimate business at that. And now we’re meant to learn how to juggle the overseeing of nightclubs, hotels, and a mass of small—mainly cash—businesses which all launder money for our main focus—drug distribution.

For the love of commonsense, even someone who was born into this takeover role would be nervous filling Lorenzo’s unfathomably large shoes.

Yet it’s been obvious for a while now that my brother has something to prove. God only knows what it is, although I’m confident it has everything to do with our messed up childhood and our deranged parents.

If our father wasn’t already dead, I’d pigeonhole this as Salvo’s way of giving dear ol’ Dad the metaphorical bird. And it’s not like our mother will get the memo when she remains in a cell in the basement of our uncle’s Virginia Beach mansion.

Why the hell can’t Salvo pick a trauma response with a little less bloodshed or potential years in prison?

“Are you going to protest, brother?” Salvatore sneers.

I scoff a laugh. “Me? Protest?”

As insidiously ruthless as my brother is, I can’t claim to be any better.

He may be the one laying plans for our generation to take over Lorenzo’s mantle, however, I’ve been the one to instigate his threats. The severed fingers. The executions.

I chose this life just like he did. I made the decision to be his right-hand man through it all. His underboss. His loyal disciple.

Well, as loyal as a younger sibling can be to an older, more annoying, less attractive brother.

“No, Salvatore.” I throw back the last of my scotch and thump the tumbler down on the table. “I do not protest.”

“Good.” He stares at me, a silent message of thanks passing between us. “Now go kill Javier Rodriguez.”

5

OLIVIA

I stand behind the closed door leading into Alexandra’s viewing, listening to the soft cries and muffled words as her family grieves their loss.

“She looks beautiful,” a female says. “Angelic.”

There’s a murmur of agreement. An underlying thread of appreciation.

My pulse hums.

“They approve?” Ivy whispers as she tiptoes toward me from the hall.

I nod.

“I don’t know why you’re always surprised. You do the best work in Maryland. Probably this side of the country, to be honest. I don’t hear of anyone putting in as much effort or care as you do.”

I may be the best, but the attention to detail comes at a cost.

The family business isn’t as profitable as our competitors’ because we can’t take on as many funerals when our only mortician is an idealist who wants everything to be perfect. I bet my father kicks himself on a daily basis for guiding me into the role.

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