Page 1 of Keeping Kasey (Love and Blood #3)

CHAPTER ONE

Logan

My mother is dead.

Maybe if I repeat those words enough, they’ll mean something to me. So far, no luck.

It’s been three weeks since she was abducted on a lunch outing with my oldest brother, Damon.

Two weeks since we found the family that took her—the Venturis.

One week since they shot her in the head and sent us her body.

I saw it myself—I had to. My father made sure of that.

I confronted the brutal reality of my mother’s death by seeing her bloodied, lifeless corpse.

By seeing her once-tan skin now ghostly white, her love-filled eyes now empty.

My three brothers and I stood over the plastic body bag they sent her in and listened as our father told us that the Venturis were unwilling to negotiate for her life.

They killed her in cold blood for the crime of being married to Gabriel Consoli.

But I suppose that’s the risk you take marrying the boss of one of the five major American Mafia families.

My mother is dead.

Today is her funeral.

It’s barely six in the morning, and I’m seated at the kitchen table with a mug of black coffee in front of me. I hate coffee. It tastes horrible and makes me jittery, but I’ll need the energy today since I sure as hell didn’t get any from sleep.

The manor is quiet, which is a rarity, and it makes the already grim day that much more eerie.

Three weeks ago, it wouldn’t have been quiet. Mom loved early mornings. She’d wake with the sun and go on a walk around the property before getting ready and making breakfast.

Each morning, I wake up knowing she’s gone but still come to the kitchen expecting to see her at the stove humming along to her favorite classical pieces.

My mother is dead.

And the kitchen is empty.

Until the distinct, purposeful thuds against the hardwood floors announce my father’s approach. I don’t turn around when he enters the kitchen, but I hear him stop in the doorway.

“What are you doing up so early?” Gabriel Consoli has a low, rough voice that carries none of the sorrow that one would expect on the day of his wife’s funeral.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He pauses before crossing the kitchen and pouring a cup of coffee. “Good. Make sure your siblings are up. We’re leaving here at eight.”

Where any other father would ask his kids how they’re doing or if they need anything, my father readily has orders for me.

And I readily accept them.

“Yes, sir.” I leave the lukewarm, half-empty mug on the table and turn to watch my father drink from his mug.

My father, like me, is already in his suit for the funeral.

The dark hair he passed to each of his children is slicked back with the precise amount of product to ensure it stays in place while looking perfectly natural.

His beard is trimmed short, even more so than normal—because looking even the slightest bit disheveled would undermine his authority.

If I expected grief to show on his face, I’m sorely mistaken.

Of course, I didn’t. That’s not who we are.

Consolis are strong. We don’t show weakness.

I pass my father with the respectful nod that’s customary for every member of our family to show our boss. Only one person can get away with ignoring that particular gesture, and I go to her room first.

Elise has struggled to grasp the reality that Mom is gone. At seven years old, the concept of death—of permanent loss—is hard to understand. Being the youngest of five and the only daughter of Gabriel and Maya Consoli, Elise and Mom were the closest.

Practically inseparable.

Her room is farthest from the stairs, and when I reach it, I knock. “Elise. It’s time to wake up.”

There’s no answer.

I knock again. “Open the door.”

Nothing.

My stomach drops as visions of the worst-case scenario flash through my brain, and I throw the door open, only to find the room empty.

“Elise!”

I’m storming in when the door across the hall clicks open, and my youngest brother, Mason, stands in the doorway. His hair is disheveled, and he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

“Do you have to be so loud?” he grumbles, and before I can panic any further, he opens the door wider to show Elise sleeping on the floor next to his bed, surrounded by thick pillows and blankets.

Her eyes are puffy, and her cheeks are a splotchy red, which, paired with the dark circles under Mason’s eyes, imply neither of them slept any better than I did.

“You both need to start getting ready,” I tell him.

“Well, I didn’t think you came here to spend some quality time with me.”

I’d roll my eyes if I cared enough to dignify his sarcasm.

I nod toward Elise. “Keep an eye on her.”

“I’m not a babysitter.”

“You are today.”

“That isn’t fair. Why don’t you make James—”

“I’m not negotiating with you. James, Damon, and I have more important things to focus on, and someone needs to make sure she’s taken care of.”

Mason clenches his fists, and knowing his temper, I prepare myself for him to start swinging. “I can do important things, too.”

“You’re nine. You can barely dress yourself. Keeping an eye on Elise is as much responsibility as you’re getting. Do it right, and you might get more one day.”

I turn my back on him as I make my way to the next room. This one is closest to the stairs, and for good reason. Should the manor ever be under attack, Damon—the oldest and heir to our father’s empire—would be closest to the threat.

I knock on the door, and this time, when I don’t get a response, panic isn’t the emotion that fills me. I don’t bother knocking again and walk right in. The bed is empty and perfectly made, but the bathroom door is ajar, and the light is on.

The scene I approach is pathetic.

Three weeks ago, Damon stood tall on a golden pedestal in my eyes—untouchable, immovable. He was the picture of strength, capable of bringing the world to its knees with a blindfold on. I looked up to him. I respected him. I wanted to be just like him.

But that version of Damon was stolen along with our mother.

This Damon is a shell of the brother I’ve known all my life, and I don’t want to be anything like him.

His face rests against the toilet seat, vomit dripping into the bowl, producing a rancid scent that fills the already stuffy room.

One leg is flopped out in front of him, and the other is hitched over the edge of the bathtub.

An empty liquor bottle is shattered against the wall across from him, having left a dent where it broke, and I have no idea how that could’ve happened without the entire house hearing it.

There’s another half-empty bottle cradled in his arms with more care than I’ve ever seen him show before.

Anger pulses with enough power to replace the organ in my chest.

I fully believed the show Damon put on all these years. I fell for it like the naive child he must think I am.

Because if he were half the man I thought he was, this loss wouldn’t be enough to put a dent in his armor, let alone shatter it to pieces.

I have half a mind to leave him like this and let him face the consequences of missing our mother’s funeral, but I can’t. My father specifically ordered me to ensure my siblings are ready, so that’s what I’m going to do.

Our family’s show of strength is more vital now than it’s ever been, and I won’t let Damon’s downward spiral screw that up.

I slam the door against the wall as hard as I can. The bang is enough to stir him, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

I slam it again. “Wake up.”

“Go away,” he slurs.

“Get up and get ready.”

If he means to say words with his groan, he fails.

I kick some glass from the shattered bottle and grab Damon’s upper arm.

“Get up,” I bite out. “We don’t have time for your pity party.”

Getting him to his feet is easier said than done. Damon is only two years older than I am, but he’s filled into a broad frame where I’m still skin and bone. When I finally haul him to his feet, he shoves at me, misses, and crashes into my chest, sending us both into the wall with a loud thump.

I curse under my breath, barely managing to get up and guide him to the bedroom.

I drop Damon into an armchair beside the fireplace and throw a water bottle at him from the mini fridge across the room.

He doesn’t catch it, and it hits him square in the stomach.

This would make me smug if not for the fact that he leans forward and empties the minimal contents of his stomach all over the floor.

At least he drinks the water when he’s done.

Half an hour passes before I get him in the shower with brushed teeth. I only leave after a dozen murmured assurances that he can take care of himself.

Doubtful, but I go anyway.

My last stop is the room directly across from mine. With a single knock, I hear the call to come in, then open the door. James stands in front of the floor-length mirror in his closet, fully dressed and ready to go.

“Finally, someone who can actually take care of themselves.”

My twin brother would usually crack a smile at the jab at our siblings, but when he turns to face me, his expression is somber, and unshed tears fill his eyes.

“Stop,” I say in a voice sharp enough to cut through the grief in James’s eyes. “We can’t show weakness. Not now.”

“I know,” he says in a strangled voice. “I just…” He trails off, and I know it’s because he’s afraid the tears will win if he says anything else.

He doesn’t need to say anything. I know what he means.

Facing a day like this is hard enough without having to hide our grief.

Grief is normal, but we aren’t.

I grab James’s shoulder, giving it a firm shake like I can help snap him out of the haze.

“Later,” I tell him. “You can break later. But right now, we need to be a strong, united front.”

“How are you able to stay so calm?”

I shake my head, keeping the answer to myself.

Because someone has to be.

The funeral starts and ends in a blur. The only parts I paid attention to were the closed casket, Elise’s tears, and the eulogy given by my father, which was less an honor to his wife and more a declaration of war on the Venturis.

Maybe if I let myself actually dwell on the grief, I’d struggle like my siblings to keep it together, but I don’t.

Elise is sobbing, and Mason—who has an arm over her shoulder—lets silent tears run down his face. James doesn’t make a sound, but I see the tears filling his eyes and pretend not to notice when one slides down his cheek mid-service.

Damon is a complete and utter disaster. Even showered and dressed in a suit, he reeks of rum and vomit.

His eyes are glossy with the lingering effects of his binge drinking, and his skin is a sickly shade of white.

Any time we’re asked to stand, he wobbles and nearly falls right back onto the pew.

The second the service ends, he storms out—probably to find a toilet to throw up in.

James leads Mason and Elise to the car, and I’m about to follow when my father places a hand on my shoulder. “Where is your brother?”

I point to the door Damon left through. “He went that way as soon as the service ended.”

Gabriel Consoli has an excellent poker face, but he doesn’t attempt to conceal his fury at this information.

He points to the casket, which is surrounded by four of my father’s highest-ranking men, including his underboss, my Uncle Antonio.

“He’s the sixth pallbearer and my heir .

He needs to be here. Go find him. Now .”

“Yes, sir,” I say and head the same way Damon went. The hallways of the old church are empty, so it’s a dead giveaway when I hear rustling behind a closed door.

Much like this morning, I find him slumped on the floor of a coat closet—luckily, vomit-free—with a flask in his hand.

“Get up,” I tell him. “You’re a pallbearer, and you need to go out there.”

“Screw off, kid,” he bites back before taking a long drink from the flask.

“You think I’m acting like a kid right now? You’re the one not fulfilling your duty to this family.”

“I had a duty to protect Mom, and we all know how that went,” he says, looking more distraught than I’ve ever seen.

“That wasn’t your fault,” I tell him, but the words sound hollow, even to me.

Comforting isn’t exactly a strength of mine.

“Shut up and get out.” He points to the door with the now-empty flask.

“You can’t just refuse to do your duty as the heir.”

“Then I won’t be the heir.”

“Get up. We don’t have time for this.”

Damon throws the flask directly at my head with surprising accuracy for his level of intoxication. I duck just in time.

“I’m not going out there. I’m done. I don’t want any of this.”

“That’s not up to you.”

“Yes, it is,” he says with a bitter laugh. “Get out, Logan. If you care so much about duty, then you can be Dad’s precious heir .”

I stare at him for a long time, waiting for any sign that he doesn’t mean it, but I find none.

He’s serious.

“You want me to take your place?”

“Well, I don’t want it. I don’t care who takes it.”

I study him, desperately searching for the regal, invincible hero I’ve idolized all my life, but there’s no sign of him—just a spiteful, bitter drunk wearing my brother’s skin.

I leave Damon without another word and return to the sanctuary.

My father scowls when I enter without Damon, but I lift my chin as I approach him, even as searing heat spreads over my chest. I’m burning from the inside out with anger, determination, fear, and grief—none of which I can afford to show.

I count each step I take, forcing myself to pull air into my lungs.

One breath.

Two.

Three.

“Where is he?” my father hisses.

“Gone,” I tell him, and step up to the empty slot. “I’ll do it.”

“You’re not my heir,” he grates, low enough that only I hear it.

I match his volume. “I am now.”

His brow furrows, his eyes narrowing. I wait for him to tell me to drag Damon out here by his throat and stop wasting everyone’s time. He doesn’t. After a few seconds, his face returns to its usual glare, and he nods once.

I have no idea what’s going through his head, and I’m sure that I never will, but what I do know is that I won’t let him down.

On my father’s count, we lift, and the sudden weight on my shoulders is more than just my mother’s casket.

It’s the weight of responsibility.

Of duty.

Of the world .

When we reach the hearse and I finally release my hold, none of the weight eases.

And it never will.