Page 2 of Birthright (Sinners of New Orleans #4)

ONE

Sam

A buzz.

A few clinks.

Birds chirping.

That's the sound of freedom.

I stretch my arms, the silky Tom Ford dress shirt a stark contrast to prison cotton.

The Louisiana sun hits my face—too bright, too warm after eight months in a cell.

For a moment, I let myself feel it all: freedom, grief, and the rage that's been building since they put my father in the ground and me behind bars for it.

John, my cousin and right-hand man, leans against the side of his black Porsche, a smile curling his lips. "Good to see you out of that hideous orange jumpsuit," he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder before pulling me into a hug.

For a split second, I'm back in that interrogation room, pictures of my father's blood-soaked carpet laid out before me. The detective pointing at the gun with my fingerprints. A gun I've never seen or held.

"It's good to be out of it," I manage to say, shoving down the memory.

"I have a fresh suit for you in the car." John points over his shoulder to where a suit bag hangs in the backseat.

My father's voice echoes in my head: "A Costello man always dresses the part, Sammy.

The world respects what it sees." Dad had adjusted my first tie when I was eight, his hands steady the way they always were.

Grief clogs my throat for a moment when I remember I'll never see or touch those hands again.

"Perfect." I swallow hard. "I'll change after I get this one dirty."

John nods, knowing exactly what I mean by dirty. Someone has to pay for my father’s death.

"How's it feel to be out?" my cousin asks quietly.

"Like I've been robbed," I say, the words bitter on my tongue. "Eight months I'll never get back. Eight months when I should have been burying my father properly, mourning him. Instead, I was locked up while his real killers walked free."

John's eyes darken. "Marcus paid for his part."

"And Damien's still breathing. Not for long, though." My hands clench at my sides, knuckles white. I'd always known the Costello famiglia was divided, but I never thought they'd go this far—murdering my father, the rightful heir to Nonno's empire, and framing his only son for it.

John nods, understanding in his eyes. He's been my shadow since we were kids, both of us learning at my father’s side how to run the family business. Both of us watching as the cracks in our family deepened after Nonno died. Only John stood by me when they came to take me away.

I look over at Adrian Russo, the lawyer who got me out.

He's observing us with that nervous energy of his, like he's always calculating the odds.

My youngest cousin married him under duress, something I'm sure she's still angry about.

But he proved useful, finding the evidence that finally convinced the judge to dismiss my case. It only took a little bit of blackmail.

"Good work, Russo," I tell him, walking toward the man to shake his hand. Before I get another word out, his phone starts ringing.

He shows me the screen displaying my Uncle Damien's name. My blood runs cold, then hot with fury. Damien—the man who helped plan my father's murder, who planted the evidence to put me behind bars.

"Answer it," I tell Adrian, deadly calm.

"Hello?" he speaks into the receiver. I can't make out the words, but I see Adrian's face drain of color. When he hangs up, he looks at my cousin. "John, where's Zoe today?"

"With Madi," he answers as confusion creeps onto his face.

"We need to go," Adrian says, dialing furiously on his phone and getting frustrated when the call rings out and goes to voicemail. "The girls are in trouble."

"Go with him," I tell John. "I'm going to find Damien."

Adrian hesitates, his eyes lingering between me and his car, before finally getting into the driver's seat. The tires squeal as they speed away.

I watch them go, feeling the weight of the gun John slipped me during our hug. Eight months I've waited for this moment. For eight months, I've seen my father's face every time I closed my eyes, heard his mantra on repeat: "Family above all, Sammy. Remember who you are."

I'm a Costello. And it's time my uncle remembers what that means.