Page 37 of Isaia

“Fuck off.”

“I’m serious. You’d have to be blind not to see how you two practically vanished into each other just now.”

I scoff, brushing him off. “I’ve got it under control.”

“Do you?”

I level him with a stare. “Is there a reason you’re here, or are you just here to piss me off?”

He shrugs. “You’ve been scarce these last few days. Thought I’d check in on you.”

“You mean checkupon me.”

“Well, that. And of course I want to take a look at our family’s recent purchase.”

I clench my jaw. “I told you I got this covered.”

“I know.” He settles back. “But when you’re hardly home to report back, and not answering calls, of course I’m going to check up on you.”

I lean back in my seat, the sound of traffic spilling through the window. “Remember how Dad used to tell us to follow ourinstincts, that if we feel something in our gut, it’s probably because it’s right.”

He lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply. “I do.”

“She’s not a threat, Alexius. Not to us.”

Alexius raises an eyebrow. “She’s close to Michele, and that connection alone makes her a liability.”

“Does it?” I challenge, and my brother studies me, taking a long drag from his smoke before stumping it out in the crystal ashtray.

“Don’t get sentimental, Isaia.”

“I’m not.”

“Then keep your head clear. It’s easy to see what we want to see when we want it bad enough.” His tone hardens. “Family comes first. Protecting what’s ours comes first.”

I nod once. “Always.”

“Good.” He finishes his coffee and straightens his suit jacket. “You gonna be home tonight? Mira’s cooking.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “In that case…no.”

He lets out a laugh, then strides toward the door. “Word of advice, don’t lose your head.”

“What kind of advice is that?”

“The kind that’ll hopefully let you keep your dick in your pants.”

As Alexius leaves, Everly steps into the doorway, nearly bumping into him.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” she says, cheeks flushing a shade of pink that instantly grabs my attention. Alexius gives her a polite nod and disappears around the corner, leaving us alone.

She glances at me. “Sorry. I just wanted to see if you and your brother needed a refill.”

“Close the door,” I demand, watching her expression flicker with a hint of discomfort.

She complies, shutting the door softly.

Today, she’s in a beige floral dress, the apron cinched around her waist accentuating every curve the loose fabric tries—and fails—to hide.

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