Salvatore

5. Salvatore

5

SALVATORE

She walks away, her defiance invigorating. The view of her ass in that professional form-hugging funeral dress isn’t half bad either.

I should’ve made it a priority to dig into her life, but I hadn’t lied about being distracted.

Remy has been a basket case all week due to Carlo’s death and his rabid affair with Olivia Pelosi. I’ve had to help manage his club, as well as his other business interests, along with his safety, while also maintaining my normal duties as I learn to take over the reins of our uncle’s unlawful business.

“How are you?” Abri stops beside me, her concern confusing.

“Fine.” I scowl. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason. I just thought seeing as we’re at a funeral of someone you were associated with, I’d test the waters to see if you’ve grown a heart. Turns out you haven’t. No surprise there.” She focuses on the people filling the room, their mindless prattle growing louder as plates and cutlery clatter. “You need to keep an eye on Remy. Unlike you, he’s not doing so well.”

“I’ve noticed. His self-pity is hard to ignore.”

“Just like your psychotic god complex.”

“That sounds like jealousy, sister,” I muse. “Are you and Bishop still envious that I’m about to take over from Lorenzo?”

“The only time Bishop and I think about you is when we’re discussing how long it will take you to drag us into an unnecessary war with the cartel. He’s convinced your ego will have us dodging bullets days after you gain control. I foolishly thought it would take longer, but not a minute goes by that I don’t question my logic.”

Joke’s on them. I attempted to instigate war weeks ago but Lorenzo forbade it.

I clap her on the shoulder. “If you’ve got money on that wager, I’m giving you the inside tip that you’re going to lose.”

She sighs. “Why are you like this? Did Mom drop you on your head as a child?”

Maybe. My mother has admitted guilt to a lot of things over almost two years isolated in a prison cell in the basement of Lorenzo’s Virginia Beach mansion.

It’s amazing what information you can garner when you’re the only child that visits your recently widowed womb donor.

“Now, now, Abri.” I give her a patronizing pat on the head, earning a glower as she jerks away. “I don’t think it’s appropriate for the sibling with the most mental issues from parental trauma to be making judgements on others.”

“I don’t have mental issues,” she snips.

I shrug as I eye the plate of an elderly woman who passes with an array of sandwiches, my stomach growling. “Your choice in lifelong partners contradicts that statement.”

“Grow up, Salvatore.” She pivots and storms off, only to come to an abrupt halt before turning and thundering back toward me. “You’re an asshole. Do you know that?”

“I’m well aware.”

“Well, you should also be well aware that all of your siblings are trying to create less volatile lives after what our parents put us through. Matthew is succeeding with Layla. I am with Bishop. And Remy now has?—”

“Remy has nothing,” I cut her off. “Don’t include the two of us in the fairy-tale movement. We’re both still digging in the trenches to create some semblance of a future. What Matthew has is wealth, thanks to Lorenzo. And you have a fucking sugar daddy for the same reason. So don’t judge those of us who are still trying to gain a foothold.”

“You have money, Salvatore. We all received the same cut of the family assets.”

I have a few mill and a business or two. It’s not enough. In fact, it equates to pocket change when what I was raised to believe my future held was generational wealth.

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’s company, 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 the Baltimore Sun wants 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 a photographer. “Maybe next time ask permission before taking photos of those in mourning.”

She blinks in shock. “Yes. Of course. I didn’t think. I just?—”

I step away, returning my attention to Ivy who now sits on the outdoor bench, fingers entwined in her lap, head bowed, tissues fisted.

I scan the courtyard for Olivia but she’s gone, leaving my troublemaker alone.

Isolated.

Looking defeated.

I don’t get a kick out of the sight like I do when she’s all wild and venomous. She’s a woman born to exchange blows. To fight. To retaliate. Her softer side makes me… I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s not appreciated.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got your balls tied in knots over a funeral home employee, too,” Matthew mutters behind me.

I ignore him and down the final dredges of my coffee.

“There’s been some developments.” He leans in close, his voice shifting to a low murmur. “Our brother got creative with a funeral attendee in the male restrooms. We need to make sure the guy disappears.”

I pivot to stare at him.

“Don’t ask.” Matthew eyes the people surrounding us. “But being the busy bee Remy is, our favorite brother is now in the catering kitchen where Olivia is in the middle of a biblical-level waterworks display. The grief finally hit her and I want to use it as a diversion to get people out of here. If you can drive her and Remy home, everyone else should clear out.”

Fucking family .

“Yeah. Fine. I’ll do it.” I rake a rough palm over my day-old stubble. “Do you need help with the bathroom issue?”

He raises a brow, the condescension a blatant sign that he’s assumed my kill tally is laughable and my clean-up experience nonexistent.

God, it’d be nice to be that ignorant.

“No.” There’s humor in his voice. “I think we’ve got the bathroom issue under control. Just get Remy and Olivia out of here. I’ll have them meet you in the parking lot.”

I ignore his ill-advised judgment, like I always fucking do, and dig into my pocket for my car fob. “Give me your keys. Use my wheels for transporting the issue. It’s a rental. You can torch it when you’re done.”

He reaches into his pants pocket to do the same, exchanging his fob for mine. “Appreciated.” Then he’s walking away, strolling, casual and calm, as if he doesn’t have a body to relocate that’s currently surrounded by a room full of witnesses.

I dump my coffee mug on a nearby table and stride for the glass doors, my pulse thudding for reasons unknown as I break out into the open air.

“Until we meet again, troublemaker.” I stride for the parking lot, gaze fixed on her.

She stiffens and her jaw ticks, yet she doesn’t raise her face to look at me as I walk past.

My pulse increases with each step, waiting for her to insult me, to taunt.

It’s strange but I fucking ache for it, the anticipation clawing at my insides. I reach the edge of the courtyard unsatisfied and hesitate before walking out of view, like she’s created some fucking vortex of unfulfillment that I can’t step away from.

I shoot a glance at her over my shoulder, her dark hair glossy in the sunlight, the curve of her shoulders set in defeat.

“Be on the lookout, Ivy,” I call out. “You never know when I’ll be watching.”

Finally her gaze snaps up, animosity evident in those narrowed eyes. “Go to hell, you fucking fridge magnet.”

I smirk. I can’t help myself.

Eloquence might not be her strong suit, but I’m beginning to believe riling me is her God-given birth right.