Page 27 of Birthright (Sinners of New Orleans #4)

TWENTY-SIX

Olivia

O nce upon a time, my mother fell in love with a gangster.

My father wasn't in the mafia, per se. But he was associated.

Not that it mattered when they came to collect his debts.

There was no loyalty to the man who owed them money.

I don't think my father was really a criminal, not how my mother tells the story.

I think he just hung around them, kept a gun under the bar, and had a lot of cash from gambling. When he won, at least.

Still, my mother recounts the turmoil my father put her through with malice. And every time, the story ends with a clear warning. Never fall in love with a criminal.

She's currently on speakerphone, her voice droning on about something or other back home while I cut lemons and limes.

Even Roman, who's sitting on the opposite side of the bar, looks like he's about to fall asleep listening to my mom talk.

Joey is at the other end of the bar, taking care of our afternoon customers, two regulars who arrive every day at 4 p.m. for their after-work beers.

"I wish your father wouldn't have left you that silly bar."

Here we go again.

She's switching topics, probably because I wasn't interested enough in her country club tales. Roman perks up at this new conversation starter, and I roll my eyes.

"Mom," I groan as I scoop up the lemon slices and drop them in the appropriate container.

"I know. I know. But you had so much going for you up here! And he goes off and dies and now you're a bar owner in New Orleans." She scoffs, and one of Roman's eyebrows raises.

"Mom," I say again, more sternly. "This is what I wanted."

"Ugh." I can hear the disgust in her voice. "I just don't understand."

"I know, Mom. Listen, I'll talk to you later. Okay? Love you."

I don't wait for a reply before I press the button to end the call. Gripping my hands on the edge of the bar, I close my eyes and heave a sigh. It's exhausting talking to my mother. And no matter what I say, she'll never understand my point of view.

"So she hated your father, huh?" Roman interrupts my mental pity party.

"Something like that." I shake my head in exasperation, opening my eyes and going back to my task.

"She used to live here when I was a kid, but now this place just holds so many bad memories for her.

I don't think she can handle the idea that I might be happy here.

" When I was younger, I would spend the summers with my father, and as soon as I'd return, she'd grill me for everything my father did wrong.

She wanted to build a case for full custody, but truly, I think she just wanted to know he was miserable without her.

"What is she so afraid of?"

I consider his question for a moment. "I think that I'll fall in love with someone like my father."

I can feel Roman's eyes on me, but I avoid his gaze.

I don't want to know what he's thinking about, but I imagine it's the same person I'm thinking about.

Sam. In some aspects, he's worse than my father, isn't he?

My father was a wannabe gangster. Sam is the boss of the New Orleans famiglia.

He's far past wannabe and strictly in the territory of criminal .

He was just released from prison. I can't imagine what my mother would say if she knew I was living with him. It's her worst fear come to life.

A few weeks ago, I would’ve agreed with her. I did agree with her. From the moment I met him, I thought Sam Costello was bad news.

So why don't I feel that way anymore?

Lana's story pops into my memory. She told me she wouldn't be alive and wouldn't be married to the love of her life if it wasn't for Sam. And as much as I hate to admit it, it seems like the man he killed deserved it.

Ever since talking to her, my brain has been a muddy mess. I avoided Sam last night after he brought me back to his mansion. I was afraid if I stayed too close to him, he might break through the final bits of my resistance.

"Ya know…" Roman leans his elbows onto the shiny bar top and watches me cut open a lime.

"Sometimes we hold our parents on a pedestal.

Thinking that because they're the adults, they should be all knowing.

But the truth is, we're all a little fucked up by our pasts.

And we pass on our fucked up-ness and our fears to the next generation, and then they pass it on to the next.

So, your mom and dad had a bad relationship? That doesn't mean you have to."

My hands freeze. Is he trying to say that if I date Sam, it won't be like what happened between my mother and father? I blow out a harsh breath and look up to meet Roman's gaze. "That was really wise for a babysitter."

Roman chuckles. "Hey, I'm not a babysitter."

"Then what do you call this?" I wave between the two of us.

"I'm keeping you safe."

I glance down at the cutting board and back to him. "From what? The limes?"

Roman opens his mouth to respond, but whatever he was about to say freezes when the ceiling thuds above us.

"What the hell was that?" Roman straightens, hand moving toward his waistband.

"Grandpa," I mutter, heart instantly pounding as I move toward the stairs.

Before I reach them, my grandfather appears at the top, red-faced and wearing nothing but his boxers and an undershirt. His thin white hair stands up wildly on one side.

"Where is he?" he bellows, gripping the railing. "I know he's here! That son of a bitch!" He rushes down the steps faster than I thought his legs could move.

"Grandpa!" I try to stop him. "What are you doing? You need to get dressed—" But my pleas fall on deaf ears. He's already in the main bar, gaining the attention of the patrons.

"Gino—" Joey catches sight of my grandfather and looks between the two of us, sympathy in his eyes. "Come on, old man, let's get you upstairs."

With newfound strength, my grandfather pushes his old friend away.

"Don't tell me what to do in my own bar!" he shouts, his cheeks reddened. "Where's my son? He took all my money, and I want it back. Now!"

Roman stares wide-eyed as my grandfather storms toward him, finger pointed accusingly. "You bring him back here," he growls. "I told the lot of you to stop letting him play."

My stomach drops. He's having an episode, living decades in the past.

"Grandpa." I try to place my hand on his shoulder, but he swings his arm back, slapping me across the face. My cheek stings, and time freezes.

Roman and Joey quickly grab him, restraining his arms as they drag him to the stairs and back up to the apartment.

Tears form in my eyes, and I try to choke them back, and when I look up, I find the eyes of my few customers staring.

I guess the ghosts of my family's history are far from done with me.