Page 16 of Birthright (Sinners of New Orleans #4)

FIFTEEN

Olivia

S am is waiting, sitting at the head of the dining room table, when I arrive.

He's too dressed up again. Wearing another pair of sleek dress pants with a button-down shirt that's rolled up at the sleeves.

He's typing away on his phone, the muscles of his forearms on display.

The top few buttons are undone, giving me a preview of his chest, and a sliver of dark ink peeks out where the fabric meets his skin.

I wonder what tattoo is hiding beneath that shirt.

He looks up, pocketing the device just in time to catch me staring at him like some love-struck teenager.

A sly, knowing smile rises on his full lips, and he stands in one fluid motion, pulling out the heavy wooden chair next to him and gesturing for me to sit with a gentlemanly flourish that makes my heart skip despite my best efforts to remain composed.

It feels like a silent dance between the two of us, a little game of power and restraint.

He gives an order, and I can choose to listen or disobey, each option weighed with consequences I'm not sure I'm ready to face.

I want to thrash and yell—still angry about my captivity, still burning with the indignity of being held against my will.

My fingers twitch with the urge to lash out, to show him I'm not some puppet he can control.

But the promise of going back to the bar and seeing my grandpa sits heavy between us, a tangible thing that keeps my rebellion in check.

I can behave for just one more night. The thought tastes bitter, but I swallow it down like medicine, knowing it's necessary for now.

I can feel Sam's eyes on me as I slip into the seat he's pulled out, my skin tingling under his gaze.

I'm waiting for him to say those two words again.

Good girl. He recites them every time I follow one of his commands and they elicit a strange feeling inside me, one I'm not entirely comfortable acknowledging.

Butterflies that whip around in my stomach, leaving me simultaneously unsettled and yearning.

He doesn't say them this time, and for some reason I don't understand, that disappoints me.

The realization that I'm craving his approval makes me shift uneasily in my seat.

Get a grip, Liv.

I've been taken against my will. This isn't a date. I'm not supposed to be attracted to the man who's forced me to be here and is dangling a visit home over my head like a shiny carrot. Making me dance in order to get it.

Sucking in a deep breath, I remind myself that I'm not a pet for this man.

"Olivia." Sam says my name as a greeting, that easy smile still tugging up the corners of his lips.

I'm thankful when someone enters the dining room, the double doors that lead to the kitchen swinging behind her.

The young woman carrying the bottle of wine doesn't say anything, just nods to Sam as she sets it down in front of him, and then turns on her heel, leaving the room as quickly as she appeared.

Rising from his seat, Sam walks to the sideboard across the room to grab a corkscrew. My eyes follow him as he inserts the metal spiral, his muscles flexing beneath his sleeve while he pulls out the cork with a practiced motion.

I haven't drunk much since I took over the bar.

Mostly because I don't have time, but also because I've never been a get-drunk-on-my-own kind of girl.

But right now, I'm thankful for the glass of red wine Sam places in front of me.

I need something to calm my nerves or help me escape my head, and alcohol will do the trick.

Tilting the glass back, I chug the contents, feeling Sam's eyes heat my flesh.

"Easy there." He reaches for me like he's going to pull the glass away from my lips, but I twist, avoiding his grasp as I finish it off.

Sam clicks his tongue, as if he's disappointed in me. "Do you remember our agreement, Olivia?"

My core warms at the sound of my name on his lips. It's deep and husky and one eyebrow lifts with his question. He's watching me, waiting for me to answer him.

I swallow. "Yes."

"Remind me."

I know damn well that he remembers the agreement we made this morning. This is all some sort of power play to put me in my place with him, but I dutifully answer anyway.

"You'll take me home tomorrow."

"If?" That eyebrow feels condescending as it waits for me to admit my role in this.

It feels childish to say, and the words burn on my tongue, but still, that fire is sizzling low in my stomach—it's a confusing feeling. Hating him so much, but feeling deeply…turned on.

"If I'm a good girl."

Sam smiles. "That's right, Olivia."

My brain must be wired incorrectly. Because there's no way I like this. Reaching forward, his palm brushes against my cheek as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. He leans in, moving his body closer to mine, so close I can smell the minty scent of his breath as he speaks again.

"Good girls listen, don't they?"

I can barely breathe, never mind speak. Not when he's this close, but none of his questions are ever rhetorical. He wants me to answer him.

I nod.

"And I said slow down, did I not?"

Again, with wanting me to admit it when we both know the answer.

"Yes," I whisper.

Sam pulls back. It’s abrupt, and the loss of his palm on my cheek makes me feel cold. He snatches the wine bottle off the table and stands, knocking on the door to the kitchen.

"No more wine," he announces, and the same girl reappears, taking the bottle from his hands and scurrying back into the kitchen.

I sink into my seat, feeling like a child who's been chastised and had their toy taken away. It's wrong that he's somehow able to make my body long for his touch while simultaneously humiliating me with his controlling nature.

I want to do nothing more than run upstairs and hide under the obnoxiously fluffy duvet.

Sam takes the seat next to me as the same woman reappears, this time with two salads on glass plates in her hands. Wordlessly, she sets them down on the gold chargers that mark our place settings.

"How many people work here?" I blurt out, desperate to change the subject.

Sam chuckles. "A few. Why?"

"How rich are you?" I snap my mouth shut after the question pops out. I can practically hear my mother’s voice in the back of my head, telling me it's impolite to talk about money. That’s on the list of things you should never discuss in public: money, politics, and religion.

For a long time, I thought that list was to keep me from offending anyone or having awkward conversations.

Now, I think people spout off that list so no one compares notes or injustices.

The corner of Sam's lips tic in the slightest smile. I don't think he's going to scold me the way my mother would. I think he's amused.

"Rich," he answers simply.

"Obviously." I wave my hand, gesturing to the opulent house we're currently in. Sam laughs softly.

He hasn't flat out told me what he does for a living, but the knowledge lingers between us.

Mafia … Criminal. Gangster. Killer.

The last one reminds me that I should be afraid of the man I'm sharing a table with. I did see him kill someone, after all.

The memory of that night flashes through my mind—the sound of the gunshot, the way the man's body crumpled to the ground.

Another question’s on the tip of my tongue, and before I can debate asking it, it pops out. "Who was he?"

Sam's eyebrow lifts. "Who?"

"That man…"

Sam's jaw tightens, the muscles flexing beneath his skin. His eyes darken, losing that playful glint from moments ago. "My uncle."

"Why would you-"

Sam's hand slams down on the table, making the silverware jump. My cheeks heat. This was stupid. I shouldn't have asked.

"That's enough questions." His voice is like ice, sending a chill down my spine. Gone is the man who touched my face so gently moments ago. In his place sits someone dangerous, someone who makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I stare down at my salad, pushing a cherry tomato around with my fork.

The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.

I shouldn't have pushed. The warning my grandfather gave me rings in my ears — the Costellos are dangerous .

I'd let myself forget that for a moment, caught up in Sam's charm and gentle touches.

But this man, the one sitting next to me with tension radiating off him in waves, this is the real Sam Costello. The one who puts bullets in people's heads. Even his own family.

I force myself to take a bite of lettuce, though it tastes like cardboard in my mouth. Sam hasn't touched his food, either, his fingers drumming an angry rhythm against the table's surface.

"I didn't mean to upset you," I whisper, keeping my eyes fixed on my plate.

Sam's fingers stop their drumming. "Look at me."

I raise my eyes slowly to meet his gaze. The darkness is still there, but something else flickers beneath it — something that looks almost like pain.

"My uncle was not a good man." His voice is low, controlled. "He hurt people… People I care about."

I think about the night in the alley, trying to reconcile the violence I witnessed with this explanation. Was this some twisted form of justice? Or just another act in an endless cycle of violence?

"Eat your food," Sam says, effectively ending the conversation. He picks up his fork and starts eating as if nothing happened, as if he didn’t just admit to killing his uncle for revenge.

I follow his lead, though each bite is hard to get down. The salad is probably excellent; the chef clearly knows what they're doing, but I can't taste anything. My mind is too busy trying to process everything, to understand the complexities of Sam Costello.

He can smile one moment and be terrifying the next.

He can touch me with such tenderness, then speak of murder in the same breath.

He's a paradox wrapped in an expensive suit, and I'm starting to realize how dangerous it is that I find myself wanting to understand him better instead of running away screaming.

The same server appears to clear our plates, replacing them with the main course. The smell of perfectly cooked lasagna fills the air, but my stomach is still in knots.

My dad and grandpa would talk endlessly about how incredible my grandmother's Italian cooking was, but she passed before I came into this world.

Neither of them could cook worth a damn.

Mom's talented in the kitchen, but she gravitates toward French cuisine - Italian food brings up memories of my father that she'd rather leave behind.

I moan over another forkful of lasagna. Sam chuckles, and I find his eyes fixed on me when mine flutter open.

Heat rises to my cheeks.

"My bad," I say quietly, dabbing my lips with the linen napkin. "The food is incredible."

"No need for apologies." Sam takes a drink of water. "I'm pleased you like it. Emilio's the finest chef in New Orleans."

The door suddenly opens, but it's not one of the servers this time.

It's the same guy I spotted earlier today, before Sam directed me upstairs to clean up and get fitted for an entirely new collection of clothes.

They exchange a glance and, somehow, without words, they communicate, because Sam rises from his chair and drops his napkin, abandoning his half-eaten dinner.

"They'll bring out dessert," he tells me, shifting his focus back. "The staff will handle anything you need. I've got work in my office. Tomorrow morning, meet me downstairs. Clear?"

I nod, and this time, he doesn't insist on a verbal response.

He's already heading out.

And it shouldn't affect me. Shouldn't make me feel this way that he's cutting dinner short.

But there's an unmistakable heaviness in my heart that suggests otherwise.