Page 14 of Birthright (Sinners of New Orleans #4)

THIRTEEN

Sam

S he's getting under my skin.

What is it about this little brunette that makes me want to own her? Control her. I want her obedience, crave it even. She gave me a taste of it, back when she was in my warehouse, pleading for her life. And now that I've spared it, she's all bite.

I seem to like that too. Her constant fight has my dick hardening beneath my slacks.

I won't break, though. Better men have tried. But they didn't turn me on the way she does.

Lips tilted in a pout, she follows me out of my office, frustrated with not getting her way. She wants to leave, but that pout isn’t going to get her what she wants.

"Let's make a deal," I say, and Olivia's gaze snaps to mine. Her arms are still crossed over her chest, and she narrows her eyes, scrutinizing me as if she's trying to figure out my angle.

"What kind of deal?"

"I'll take you to your bar. You can check in on everything and see your grandfather."

"Okay…" She seems hesitant, even though this is exactly what she wanted.

"But first, I need you to shower. I'll have new clothes sent to your room.

You'll get cleaned up and dressed. I have some things to take care of, so you'll be on your own this afternoon, but you'll behave.

" I give her a stern look at that demand.

"One of my men will be here to look out for you.

I'll be back for dinner, and you'll eat with me.

If we get through today with no more problems, I'll take you to your bar in the morning. "

Olivia tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing on the poor thing while she thinks over my offer.

With a mind of its own, my hand darts out, freeing her bottom lip. She gasps as I make contact, her lips still parted.

Electricity fizzles between us. Just a simple touch, and we both can feel it.

I cough, pulling my hand back and shaking off this interaction. It's nothing.

"So?" I ask, bringing us back to the conversation.

"Okay." She nods. "I accept your deal."

"Good—" I'm about to call her a good girl , a compliment I keep finding myself giving.

I can't help it when I see how her eyes sparkle, suggesting that even though she resents being stuck here, my approval still makes her happy.

But then John walks through my front door, his eyes serious, and I know there must be a problem.

"Go upstairs," I tell her.

Olivia looks between me and my cousin, and I think she must feel the tension that's just entered the room. Surprisingly, she doesn't argue, just nods her agreement and turns on her heel, heading for the staircase.

I have to redirect my mind, shake her from my thoughts, because I get the feeling that I'm not going to like whatever John’s about to say.

Olivia is barely up the stairs before my Aunt Carlotta barges through my front door. One of my men is gripping onto her arm, trying to pull her back, but she shakes it off with a stream of curses flying from her lips.

"Carlotta's here," John deadpans, gesturing to our aunt. My grandfather had four children; three girls, all born before my father. As the only male heir, my father was always meant to take over la famiglia , a fact that angered the oldest two daughters.

And Carlotta? She married Damien.

I expected my newly widowed aunt to be pissed off when she discovered her husband was murdered right after I was “missing.” What I didn't expect was to be distracted with a little blue-eyed witness while also having a motorcycle club coming after my business.

I rub my temples.

"Aunt Carlotta, why don't we speak in my office." I try to redirect her, but she's not hearing me.

She's a disheveled mess, looking the roughest I've ever seen her.

My aunt has always been focused on appearance.

Dressed to the nines, with a full face of makeup every time she leaves the house.

But Carlotta's face isn't made up, save for the black smears under her eyes.

She's wearing a matching sweat suit and sneakers, which is very dressed down for her.

With a hiss, she marches until she's face to face with me, a manicured finger stabbing me in the chest.

"You little asshole!"

I grab her finger, pulling it down and away from me. She winces at the roughness of my action. "My office," I growl, tugging her through the French doors.

John follows us, shutting the doors so my new house guest doesn't hear our conversation.

"How dare you!" she shouts, her hand flailing in the air. "Who do you think you are?"

"The boss." My voice is commanding as I step into her space, backing her up until she falls into the chair Olivia was just sitting in. For the first time, I see fear in my aunt's eyes.

I don't feel bad about scaring her. Not after the mess she put her children through. My cousin, Lily, committed suicide to avoid marrying the monster her parents arranged for her. And her younger sister, Lana, tried to do the same when they wanted her to marry the same man. I had to step in and get her and Naz out of New Orleans, an act that pissed off my aunt and uncle. By that point, they had already framed me for my father’s murder, but John was able to get the two of them out of here.

In my aunt’s eyes, I'm sure I'm the villain. Ruining her plans, killing her husband. Now she has nothing left. A dead daughter, a dead husband, and her last living child won't speak to her.

But these were her doings. Not mine.

"You ruined everything!" she cries, tears dripping from her eyes, smudging the remnants of her mascara.

"I could say the same for you." I scoff. "I was in prison for eight months, Carlotta."

She sniffs, bringing a hand to her face to wipe away the tears. "What are you going to do with me?" she asks in a weak voice.

With a sigh, I step back. My fingers reach up to rub away the ache at my temples. I won't kill my aunt, as much as I would like to.

"You'll live," I tell her, my voice void of sympathy. "I'll make sure you have money for basic needs, but nothing more. You'll stay in New Orleans, but you'll keep far away from Lana. Understood?"

She nods, dabbing at her tears.

"And my husband’s funeral? His body?"

"Traitors don't get funerals," John snipes from where he's leaning against the far wall of my office. I raise a hand to silence him.

He's right, traitors don't get funerals.

"I'll make an exception," I tell my sniffling aunt. "If his body is found, he'll have a cheap and poorly attended funeral."

She winces at my phrasing. Could be that I didn't promise her husband’s body would be found, and if it is, the cheap funeral will not be what she wanted, but she doesn't fight back again. She knows she has nothing left to bargain with. Nothing left to hold on to.

Carlotta stands, wiping one last time at her eyes before she turns to leave, wordlessly. Not a thank you or apology. She won't admit that she was wrong and now her husband's dead because of it.

"One last thing," I say, stopping her. She turns her head to look at me over her shoulder. "Did you know they were going to kill him? My father."

Creases form on her face, and her eyes drop to the floor. She doesn't open her lips to respond, but the truth lingers between us.

"Get the fuck out of my house." I gesture to the door, and Carlotta nods, leaving hastily. She plotted to have her own brother killed. She thought she was going to be queen, with her husband reigning, but this was never her castle, and she never had any right to the throne.

This is my legacy.

My birthright.

And she can fuck right off.