Page 77 of Scorned Beauty

The beach house I was renting was three times the size of Sloane’s. I wondered how they were all going to fit in there. There were only two bedrooms in that one. I had five in mine.

I slipped out my phone and started flipping through the live surveillance videos. I watched my cousins hug Sloane and they cried. I could hardly hear their words because they were talking at the same time. I felt like a voyeur, an outsider into their intimate gathering. Raw emotions flowed, and I suppressed the ragged sob in my throat.

This thing with Sloane was turning me emo. I missed my calling in a rock band.

I stiffened when Sandro peered into one of the cameras. I swore he smirked before the feed went dead.

Motherfucker.

Sera immediately texted.

Sera

You’re so predictable.

Me

Tell Sandro he’s dead to me.

Tell him yourself, because he’s heading your way, and I quote: I’m not wasting my time looking for those cameras and Dom can just tell me where they are.

Sandro is not welcome here.

Oh, piss off, cuz. Cooperate, or we’ll tell Aunt Lottie where you are.

Me

I’m your cousin. You’re supposed to be on my side.

Sera

Well, you’re an ass, so we’re on Sloane’s side.

Do you guys even know the whole story?

You had your chance to tell us and you refused.

Because I wanted Sloane to tell her side, too. Now, she gets to tell hers and you all won’t hear mine?

Bubbles…and then nothing.

Disloyal. The lot of you.

Bianca

Stop being a drama queen.

Oh, she had to call me out. In frustration, I hurled my phone toward the beach and instantly regretted it. The sun had set an hour ago, and hopefully, it wasn’t buried in sand. I heard it chiming in the dark and decided to be petty by ignoring their messages, and continued to down the whiskey.

They thought I was a drama queen, I’d show them drama queen.

My resistance took all of five minutes. I was the fucking don of the De Lucci crime family for Chrissakes. Although, in my defense, Luca was equally a drama queen when it suited him. It threw people off guard. We Morettis had a way of smiling as if we were your best friends while at the same time plotting devious ways to bury you.

Somewhere in the house, my proximity sensors went apeshit, but in my stubborn, self-pitying mood, I didn’t give a fuck.

I chucked the empty whiskey bottle in the same direction as my phone.

“That’s littering,” Sandro spoke in the dark.