Page 23 of Birthright (Sinners of New Orleans #4)

TWENTY-TWO

Olivia

S am isn't at the mansion when I get back from the bar. Roman had me pack it up right at five, reminding me that part of my agreement with Sam was to be home in time for dinner. But since he's not here…

I decide I'll find somewhere to sit that isn't inside the four walls of his guest room. I've spent enough time there already, and seeing as there's no end date for my stay, I might as well get comfortable.

Sam's mansion is huge and stylish, a mix of old Southern charm and modern luxury that would make my mother's designer heart skip a beat.

Through French doors, I discover a hidden courtyard. Bougainvillea spills over wrought-iron railings, and a small fountain trickles in the corner. The late afternoon sun filters through the leaves, creating dancing shadows on the stone pavement.

It's stunning .

I pull out my phone, scrolling through the missed notifications from the days I was without it.

I have at least five texts and two missed calls from my mother, but the thought of talking to her right now makes my stomach roll.

I'm not in the mood for another guilt trip of I can't believe you moved so far away from me and back to that place.

What would I say? Hey, I'm fine, just living with the New Orleans mafia boss because I accidentally saw him kill someone. No biggie.

I scrub a hand over my face. No, I'm not ready for that conversation. At least Joey knows what happened, so if I suddenly go missing, he can tell the cops that Sam Costello probably killed me.

Do I really think Sam is going to murder me?

A sigh leaves my lips. I'm not sure. He should, that much I know. Isn't that what they do with witnesses in all the gangster movies? Toss them in the sea with a brick tied to their ankles? Swim with the fishes, and all that.

But I still don't think that’s Sam's M.O. Maybe I'm naive.

Before I can think better of it, I open the browser and type Sam's name into the search engine. Seconds later, the results appear. I scroll through, my heart rate quickening with each headline. There's so much information about Sam — more than I expected.

Charges dropped against New Orleans mafia boss, Samuel Costello, due to insufficient evidence in murder trial.

I tap on the article, scanning through the details. The piece outlines how Sam was released less than a week ago after evidence emerged proving his innocence and the judge dismissed his case. He was in Orleans Parish Prison while awaiting trial for the murder of his father.

I freeze, my eyes rereading the line.

Did Sam kill his own father?

I know he's capable of murder; I saw it with my own eyes. But the idea of someone killing their own blood feels foreign to me. But then again, it was his uncle in that alleyway.

Going back to the search results, I tap on a photo gallery and find myself staring at Sam's mugshot. His eyes are hard, defiant, nothing like the calculated charm I've seen directed at me.

Further down, there's a society page from years back. A much younger Sam in a tuxedo at some charity gala, his arm around a stunning blonde. The caption reads: "Samuel Costello and date at the annual Children's Hospital Benefit."

I find myself diving deeper, reading about the Costello family history in New Orleans. They've been here for generations, with legitimate businesses — restaurants, real estate, shipping — serving as fronts for their less legal endeavors.

My stomach drops when I find an article about the murder of Giulia Costello, Sam's mother, when he was just a child. The details are sparse but horrific — killed during a kidnapping attempt by a rival gang.

I close the browser, suddenly feeling like I'm violating his personal information. This isn't just research anymore; I'm peering into the painful chapters of Sam's life that shaped him into the man who now controls mine.

I nearly drop my phone when Sam's voice comes from behind me.

"Find anything interesting?"

My heart slams against my ribs. I didn't hear him approach — how does someone so large move so silently? I turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He's wearing a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly, his dark hair slightly tousled from the day.

"Just...catching up on messages." I quickly lock my phone screen, but from the knowing look in his eyes, I can tell he's not buying it.

Sam crosses the courtyard in a few long strides and sits beside me on the stone bench. He smells like expensive cologne and something distinctly him . "Let me see."

"It's private."

"Nothing's private when you're living in my house." His voice is gentle but firm. "What were you looking at, Olivia?"

The way he says my name makes my skin prickle. I consider lying, but what's the point?

"You," I admit, meeting his gaze. "I was looking you up."

Something flickers across his face — surprise, maybe even vulnerability — before his expression settles back into careful neutrality.

"And? Satisfied your curiosity?"

"Not really." I twist the phone in my hands. "I found articles about your…arrest."

Sam's jaw tightens. "You shouldn't believe everything you read," he says. “Come. Dinner’s ready."

And then he spins on his heel, leaving me in the courtyard, wondering what really happened to land him in New Orleans Parish facing murder charges.