Page 24 of Birthright (Sinners of New Orleans #4)

TWENTY-THREE

Sam

I pour myself a bourbon and settle into my seat at the head of the table. My phone is gripped in my hand, finger hovering over the tracking app I installed on Olivia's phone.

I want to know what she read.

Tapping the app, it comes to life on my screen. A small blue dot shows her location in the mansion. Currently upstairs, getting changed before dinner.

I tap over to her search history. "Sam Costello New Orleans."

She's been digging, trying to understand who I am. I can't say I blame her, but still. There's something intimate about knowing she's researching me, picking through the digital breadcrumbs of my past like she's trying to solve a puzzle.

The first article she read was about my release.

Does she think I killed my father? My fists clench, annoyed that anyone could possibly think that.

But she never knew my father; she has no idea what our relationship was like or what we meant to each other.

And she watched me kill my uncle. Why wouldn't she think I'm capable of killing my blood? The thought sits heavily in my chest.

I scroll through the images of my mugshot and photos of me from before I was arrested. A different man stares back at me from those pictures — younger, with fewer shadows behind his eyes.

With my finger hovering over the next article, I’m frozen as I read the headline.

"Giulia Costello Murder Remains Unsolved After 18 Years."

My mother.

I take a long swallow of bourbon, feeling it burn all the way down, hoping it might cauterize something inside me. The memories flood back without permission, breaking through every mental barrier I've built.

The small room. The screw. The feeling of rope against my wrists as I worked them free, my skin raw and bleeding.

Mama's frightened eyes as I untied her, that moment of hope before everything shattered.

The gunshots. My father's voice, desperate and broken.

The stick in my hand, useless and pathetic.

Mama jumping in front of me.

The blood. So much blood. It seemed impossible that one person could contain so much of it.

I close my eyes, but it doesn't help. I still see her there on the floor, life draining from her eyes as my father screamed her name, a sound I've never been able to forget. The moment that taught me the most important lesson of my life: everyone I love becomes a target. Everyone I care for dies.

I open my eyes and stare at the phone screen, at Olivia's digital footprint through my past. This thing growing between us, this pull I feel toward her, it's dangerous.

For her.

For me.

It's a vulnerability I can't afford.

Draining my glass, I pour another, heavier this time, the bottle clinking against the crystal. What am I doing, keeping her close? Making her a part of my life means painting a target on her back. The Iron Serpents are just waiting for leverage against me. Anyone I care about becomes that leverage.

But I can't let her go.

The bourbon doesn't dull the memory of my mother's face. It never does.

I'm still staring at my phone when I hear the soft pad of footsteps. I quickly lock the screen and slip it into my pocket, composing my expression into something neutral as Olivia enters the dining room.

She's wearing one of the dresses I bought her, a simple blue one that flares at her waist. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders. Something in my chest tightens at the sight of her.

For some reason, I need her to know that I didn't kill my father. Even if I am a murderer, it seems important that she knows I didn't do what I was accused of.

I've never felt the need to defend myself to anyone. But right now, I can't help the need to defend myself to her.

Why does it matter?

I try to shake off the thought. Redirecting.

"You look nice," I tell her, gesturing to the chair at my right.

Olivia slides into the seat, her movements cautious. "Thank you."

She watches me pour her a glass of wine, her eyes never leaving my face. There's something different in her gaze now, a new wariness that wasn't there before. She knows things about me that she didn't this morning.

"I didn't kill my father," I say, the words coming out before I can stop them.

Her eyes widen slightly. "You don't have to?—"

"I know."

A flush creeps up her neck, but she closes her mouth, waiting for me to continue.

"I was framed." I take a long sip of bourbon, letting the burn steady me. "My father and I were close. I never would have hurt him. My grandfather had just died, and my father was taking over the family. Someone didn't like that."

She swallows hard. "Is that why…"

She doesn't finish the sentence, but we both know what words are hanging between us.

Is that why I killed Damien.

"Yes."

She flinches slightly, but holds my gaze. "Why would they frame you?"

"Power. Money. The usual reasons people betray family." I shrug, trying to seem casual about the time that was stolen from me. "They wanted control of the Costello empire, and I was in the way."

"So you didn't do it." It’s spoken so quietly, almost to herself.

"No. I would never hurt my father." The intensity in my voice surprises even me. "Family is everything to me, Olivia. Everything."

"I'm sorry," she says softly. "I shouldn't have looked you up."

"It's fine. You wanted to know, and now you do."

I notice Olivia's shoulders relax, the tension leaving her body as she processes what I've told her. Her fingers trace the stem of her wineglass, a nervous habit I've come to recognize.

"What was he like?" she asks suddenly. "Your father."

The question catches me off guard. People don't usually ask about him — they ask about his business, his connections, his power. Never about who he was.

"He was..." I search for the right words. "Complicated. Strong. Principled, in his own way."

I take another sip of bourbon as memories surface. "He taught me how to fish when I was six. Had the patience of a saint when it came to untangling my line every five minutes."

A small smile plays on Olivia's lips, encouraging me to continue.

"He loved my mother more than anything. After she died, something in him changed. Hardened." I look down at my glass. "But he never stopped trying to protect me."

Olivia reaches across the table, her fingers hesitating just inches away. Then, with a decisiveness that surprises me, she places her hand over mine. Her touch is warm, gentle, a stark contrast to everything else in my world.

"I'm sorry about what happened to you," she says, barely above a whisper. "Being blamed for something you didn't do."

For a moment, I'm frozen, unable to process the simple comfort of her touch. It's been so long since anyone has reached for me like this, without wanting something in return.

"Thank you," I manage, my voice rougher than I intend.

Her eyes meet mine, and I see something there I wasn't expecting…understanding. Not pity, not fear, just...recognition of pain.

I turn my hand over, our palms meeting, and gently close my fingers around hers. The dining room falls away, the empire, the enemies, the responsibilities — all of it recedes until there's just this: her hand in mine, a quiet moment of connection I didn't know I was starving for.

I should end this now. Before I care too much. Before she becomes something I can't bear to lose.

Before history repeats itself in the worst possible way.