Page 25 of Birthright (Sinners of New Orleans #4)

TWENTY-FOUR

Olivia

T here's a hairbrush tangled in my wet hair when Sam knocks on my door the next morning. My thoughts are a jumbled mess after reading a text from my mother begging me to come home.

I'm not even sure I could if I wanted to. What would Sam say if I told him oh, I'm just gonna move back home and forget any of this even happened. Would he just let me pack my bags and send me on my way?

Doubtful.

But I don't even want to go home. What would I do there? Go back to Rhett and fake happy with the cheating asshole? Put on a fake smile and pretend to be his trophy wife?

When I responded to her message, telling her I was happy here, she replied by asking why I hate her.

Guilt churns in my gut. That's always been my mother’s response.

If I don't immediately agree or do whatever she asks, it must be because I secretly hate her and I’m trying to make her miserable.

It couldn't possibly be because I have any thoughts or wishes of my own.

It doesn’t help that I tossed and turned all night, thinking about Sam. My brain is a confusing mess. I want to hate him for taking me, for keeping me here. But that seems to be getting harder and harder to do. The more I learn about him…the more I understand why he is the way is.

Sam doesn't wait for me to answer before the door to my bedroom is swinging open. I gasp, dropping the hairbrush to the floor and clutching my towel tighter.

"Shit," Sam mutters, turning around so he's facing the hallway. "Sorry."

"Did you need something?" I ask.

"You're coming with me today. You should wear black."

"Why would I wear?—"

"We're leaving in thirty minutes."

He exits my room as quickly as he came, shutting the door behind him and leaving me with more questions than answers.

Thirty minutes later, I'm downstairs with dry and curled hair, wearing a black dress and matching heels, thanks to Ana's insistence that I would need one. The clothes feel foreign on my body, the dress too short and the heels too high.

Sam comes out of his office a moment later, with his associate, who he's never introduced me to, and another man on his heels. All three pause when they see me.

My skin heats as Sam's eyes trace over my body, taking in the little dress and matching heels. He steps toward me, coming closer.

"You look beautiful," he murmurs.

The compliment catches me off guard, simmering under my skin.

Ever since I agreed to let him help me by fixing up the bar, things have shifted between us.

He's… sweet. And attentive in a way I've never experienced.

Rhett's nice gestures and compliments always came with strings.

He needed me to attend an event and make him look good, or he simply just wanted sex.

But Sam seems different… Or maybe I'm naive thinking that, and at any moment, the other shoe is going to drop.

"You told me to wear black," I say, as if explaining why I look nice.

Or beautiful, as he said. I don't feel beautiful, though.

More like a child playing dress up, pretending to be a sophisticated woman when, really, inside, I'm barely surviving.

I desperately want to be back in a pair of leggings and an oversized t-shirt that hides my body.

One of his hands reaches out, his fingers brushing against my cheek as he moves a piece of hair.

Our skin touches as he tucks the strand behind my ear, sending sparks through me as our eyes meet, a clash of blue and brown.

For a moment, I think he's going to lean in and press his lips to mine.

It's the second time since I've met him that I think he's going to kiss me.

And for some reason, I think I want it.

My gaze drops to his mouth, lingering there as my heart hammers against my ribs. His lips are full, the bottom one slightly fuller than the top, and I imagine how they might taste.

The thought has a shiver rippling down my spine, unexpected and thrilling. I've spent so long building walls, protecting myself from men like Sam Costello, men who represent everything my father was and my mother hated. Yet here I stand, captivated by the possibility of his touch.

Would kissing Sam feel like falling or flying? Like danger or salvation? The line between the two seems blurrier every moment I spend in his presence.

"I did." Sam drops his hand and takes a step back, breaking the tension instantly.

Fucking hormones.

I have to shake away all these thoughts plaguing my mind. Luckily, Sam redirects my attention to the two men who were in his office with him.

"Olivia, this is my cousin, John, and my lawyer, Adrian."

I don't trust my voice to work, so I give them a polite wave, and they return with similar greetings.

"Let's go," Sam pulls open the front door. His driver is waiting outside, along with two matching black Escalades. Sam leads me into the first one, and John and Adrian take the second.

"Where are we going?" I ask once his driver pulls out of the semi-circle driveway and onto the road.

Sam is tapping away on his phone again, so he doesn't look up when he answers. "A funeral."

"What?"

A funeral? Why the fuck is he taking me to a funeral? I hate funerals, always have. The last one I went to was my father’s. My mom didn't come with me, couldn't stand to see my father again, even in death. Rhett and I were already broken up, so I went alone.

There was barely anyone there. A few regulars from the bar, but that was it. The only family my father had left was me and my grandfather.

The funeral Sam takes me to doesn't seem to have many more people.

We pull up to Lafayette Cemetery, and Sam leads me through the front gate and down the rows of tombs.

The cemeteries in New Orleans have always freaked me out.

The idea of these cement tombs housing your body for the rest of time seems even worse than being buried six feet underground.

I make a mental note to make sure someone knows I want to be cremated. The thought makes me shiver, and Sam reaches out, wrapping his arm around me in a warming gesture that takes me by surprise.

When we stop in front of the tomb that has the fellow mourners, I spot a blown-up picture of the deceased on an easel. My heart stalls, and my knees go weak. I'd fall on my ass if it wasn't for Sam, who tightens his grip, keeping me standing.

I recognize the picture immediately.

It matches the one I saw on the news just last week.

Sam's uncle. Damien Romano.

The news reported that he was killed by the Iron Serpents in a feud between the two criminal organizations, but I know better.

I'm standing right next to his killer.

There's a woman wearing a black dress and an oversized hat, dabbing at her nose with a tissue.

Beside her is another woman who looks similar enough to be her sister.

She rubs her back in a soothing gesture.

There's a couple standing across from him, the woman also looking strikingly similar to the other two. Are they all sisters?

Other than us, these are the only people here to mourn the man Sam killed.

Sam told me his uncle was a bad person, and the lack of attendance at his funeral makes me believe him. But still, seeing the woman crying sends daggers into my chest.

She's grieving and probably doesn't even know what really happened.

But I do. And I'm not telling anyone. I could go to the police and give her closure.

But then what would happen? Sam made it clear that he's keeping me until he believes he can trust me.

Going to the police would be an obvious sign that he can't trust me.

"Let's get this over with." Sam's words are harsh as he looks at the priest.

My eyes are fully focused on the crying woman while the priest does his thing. Damien is already closed in the tomb. There are no flowers to be dropped on his grave. We pray and watch his wife cry. And then it's over quickly.

I stand frozen as the mourners begin to disperse.

The woman — Damien's wife — walks past me, her tear-stained face hidden beneath her wide-brimmed hat.

For a moment, our eyes meet, and I feel like I'm drowning in her grief.

Does she see something in my expression? Can she tell I know more than I should?

But I also know that her husband is the reason Sam spent months in Orleans Parish Prison for a murder he didn't commit.

Confusion twists in my gut.

Right and wrong are starting to swirl together, and I'm not sure which is which any more.

Sam's hand presses against the small of my back, guiding me away from the tomb. "Time to go."

My legs move mechanically as we walk back through the cemetery. The sun beats down on us, making the black dress stick to my skin. I feel like I'm suffocating.

"Why did you bring me here?" I finally ask when we're far enough away from the others.

Sam's jaw tightens. "I wanted to see what you would do."

"What I would do… Was this a test? You wanted me to watch a grieving woman, all so you could test me?" I nearly shout, and Sam presses his palm to my lower back, pushing me forward to the car. Opening the door, he urges me inside.

I slide in, grateful for the blast of cold air conditioning. As he settles in beside me, I turn to face him.

"Did you feel anything back there? Watching his wife cry?"

Sam stares straight ahead, his profile hard as stone. "What I feel doesn't matter."

"It does to me." The words surprise even me.

He turns then, his dark eyes meeting mine. Something flickers there — pain, regret, I'm not sure which.

"You think I'm a monster." It's not a question.

I should say yes. I should hate him for what he's done, for keeping me prisoner, for making me complicit in his world. But the truth is more complicated.

"I think you're a man who's convinced himself he has no choice. But there's always a choice. You're not God. You don't get to choose who lives and who dies."

Sam's expression shifts, and he looks away from me for a long moment.

"Donnie, take us to Lana's." He returns his gaze to me. "I think there's someone you should meet."