Page 5 of Wanting Wentworth

THREE

Wentworth

HELENA, MONTANA TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER

It’s been almost seven years since I’ve seen my brother. Not since I was fifteen and he and his twin sister were seventeen. Barely eighteen months between the three of us—more than twice the difference between me and our younger sister, Silver, who turns twenty-one next month. I turned twenty-two last October. Delilah—my only full-blood sibling—is nineteen. After her, comes Sophia, who turns thirteen this year. The youngest of us is Mateo—he’s ten. There are four older siblings in Italy that I’ve never met.

Our father is a very busy man.

Easily distracted.

Easily bored.

The only thing Davino Fiorella ever fully committed to in his entire life is collecting Michelin stars. Collecting ex-wives runs a very close second.

Five stars.

Four ex-wives.

Two restaurants.

The only thing he has more of is children.

For the record, there’s eleven of us tangled up in the mess our father made of his personal life. Some of us are closer than others. By all accounts, my brother shouldn’t have even picked up the phone when I called, let alone agree to help me but there he is waiting for me on the tarmac when I step off the plane.

When he sees me, Damien even smiles.

Leaning against a beat-up truck parked a few yards from a black stretch limo with the Hawthorne Hotels insignia painted on its door, he watches while I make my way toward him, large canvas duffle bag slung over my shoulder. Worn leather portfolio tucked under my arm. It was a gift from my grandfather—the last thing he ever gave me and one of the few things I own in this world that I give a shit about.

“Holy shit you got big,” Damien says as soon as I get close enough to hear him. “Last time I saw you, you were barely scraping the underside of my chin.”

“Bullshit.” I give him a wide grin, slinging my duffle into the back of his truck while behind me, the steward opens the belly of the plane and starts off loading an assortment of designer luggage. “We were the same fucking height.” I look at him. Nothing much has changed. Where I continued to grow another five inches, Damien stalled out just north of six-foot. We share the same black hair. The same dark eyes but that’s where the similarities between us end.

Tossing a look at my duffle in the bed of his truck, Damien tips his chin at the limo parked a few yards away. “I was starting to think maybe I heard you wrong when you said you needed a place to stay.”

Aiming my gaze in the same direction, I watch the driver climb out of the limo so he can help the steward put the luggage in its trunk.

“You know how it is,” I say, trying to find a balance between telling him too much and telling him too little. “Subterfuge is the only way I get any peace and quiet.” I’ve called ahead to ten different Hawthornes to let them know that I’m coming and to get my suite ready—six of them out of the country. The Hawthorne Helena is the last place on the planet anyone would look for me but just in case some enterprising reporter picks through my tangled family tree and finds Damien, they’ll think that’s where I am.

“Uhhh, no.” Damien shakes his head on a laugh. “I have no idea what that’s like.” There’s no mistaking the note of relief I hear in his tone. Of all of us, Damien and his twin sister, Dakota, are the only ones who didn’t take our father’s last name, in one way or another. Not that it would’ve mattered in my case. Even without the name Fiorella weighing me down, I’d still have Hawthorne to contend with. A few yards away, the driver finishes loading up the luggage before closing the trunk.

“I’ll have your luggage delivered to your room, sir.” He addresses me formally while Damien rolls his lips between his teeth to keep from laughing out loud when he hears the word sir. “Will there be anything else? Perhaps room service or a massage upon your arrival?”

Next to me, Damien makes a sound like he’s being strangled.

“No, thank you.” I shake my head while digging an elbow into my brother’s ribs. “Just the luggage.”

“Very well.” He flicks a faint look of disapproval in Damien’s direction before he turns to climb back into the drivers’ seat. Moments later the limo is started and drives away.

“It’s been seven years since I’ve seen you,” I tell him while I move to open the truck’s passenger side door. “Good to know you’re still an asshole.”

“Good to know you’re still a spoiled little rich boy,” Damien snipes back with a barely suppressed smile.

“I’m four inches taller than you,” I tell him while I settle into my seat. “I’m a big spoiled rich boy now.”

The laughter Damien’s been holding in cracks loose. “Kota’s great,” he says, referring to his twin sister. “But fuck, if I haven’t missed having a brother,” he tells me right before he slams the truck door in my face.

“So, how’s your mom?”

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