Page 21 of Salvatore

Abri scrutinizes me, her head cocking to the side, her brow furrowing. “Don’t tell me you’ve squandered the money already.” She scoffs and lowers her voice to a whispered hiss. “Are you fucking serious?”

“I haven’t squandered anything.” I’ve barely touched my finances. “But what we confiscated from the family trust isn’t financial freedom.”

She glares. “Twenty-plus million isn’t enough for you? Or the crazy cash you’re making with Lorenzo?”

“Not even close.” My voice holds more bite than I can contain. I spent years being controlled by people with money. Never again will I let anyone have that power over me. “I’m beginning to believe ten billion wouldn’t scratch my itch.”

Abri straightens, the anger in her features transforming to something I don’t expect. Something softer. Something disturbingly similar to pity. “Salvo?—”

“Where’s your kid?” I ask before she can say something to match her god-awful expression. “Given what’s she’s been through it seems like a dick move to let her out of your sight.”

Her eyes harden. My pulse kicks in victory. But instead of her storming away, or biting back, a condescending smile twists across my sister’s face. “You hold your cards tight, brother, but your mental issues bleed through just as dark as mine. You know we’re all here for you when you finally want to admit our parents messed you up just as much as the rest of us.”

“Do you think you could do me a solid and hold your breath while you wait?”

She glowers. “I’ll let Tilly know you said hi.”

I itch to tell her not to bother. I learned of my niece’s existence almost two years ago and not once in all those months have I wanted anything to do with her.

I have nothing to bring to that kid’s life. Nothing apart from animosity.

And besides, that little girl deserves a better fucking family than ours. Shoving her into the hands of an adoption agency would’ve been a kindness.

“Keep an eye on Remy.” Abri warns in farewell, then disappears into the mass of mourners.

As if I wasn’t already watching my baby brother like a fucking hawk.

As if I didn’t know that the burden of his yet-to-be-fully-formed brain wasn’t my liability to handle after watching him worm his way into the arms of a woman who should’ve been silenced a long time ago.

A woman who I’m all too confident opened her mouth and let secrets spill out to a long-haired, dark-eyed siren of a temptation.

I scan the room for the beauty in question and come up empty.

I do a lazy stroll around the wake room, make myself a mug of instant sludge that’s just as nauseating as my sister’scompany, then do another slow lap around prattling women and white middle-aged men in cheap suits.

It isn’t until my third loop past the floor-to-ceiling windows giving sight to the courtyard that I find the woman who has a patent on stealing my attention.

She’s outside, crouched before Olivia who sits on an ornate bench, their expressions both etched with concern. Then again, it could be grief. They both stare at each other with wide eyes and pale faces. Or maybe it’s fear. Nauseating panic that I’m onto them.

I’m about to walk outside and get answers when a young woman moves into the doorway to my left, raises her cell phone, and points it toward me as if taking a picture.

A journalist? A cop?

Is my agreement with the funeral home already public fucking knowledge?

I stalk to her and smack a hand over her cell. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The blonde startles, her glossy pink lips gaping. “I, um. I’ve been asked to take a few photos for the local paper.”

“You’re a reporter?” I look her up and down, the cookie-cutter black pantsuit lacking the journalistic vibe.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m a temporary employee of the funeral home. I was told by my boss to take the pics. He said theBaltimore Sunwants to run an article on Carlo but didn’t have any available staff to send out for photos.”

“What sort of article?” I demand.

Her brow furrows, her eyes pleading. “I don’t know. I assume it’s a tribute. But I can get the temporary manager for you if you’d like. He took the call. He knows more than I do.”

“No.” I release her cell and inch back. It’s safe to assume the article isn’t investigative if they haven’t bothered to send aphotographer. “Maybe next time ask permission before taking photos of those in mourning.”

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