Page 54 of Royally Ruined

Bit by bit, my breathing calmed down. Looking across the alley, I said, “I know exactly how many there are.”I could tell you how many veins are in their eyes, how many teeth are in their mouths—and when I knock them out, I’ll count them again.“I’ll get them next time,” I whispered.

She blocked me, the high sun casting sharp shadows over her pretty face. “How long has this been going on? Costello, you need to tell Dad. He can help, whatever they want, he—”

“No.” I growled it out. Seeing how her eyes widened, I tried to get a grip. I knew better than to let my emotions take over. My father had instilled that in me early ... before I’d learned to walk.

Never let them see how you really feel. If they do, it becomes a weapon for them.

Gingerly touching where I’d been punched, I said, “This is my burden. I can handle it.”

Her long fingers wrapped around my wrist. “If you honestly believe I’ll let you walk away without telling me why this is happening, then you’ve forgotten who I am.”

It was impossible to avoid her piercing stare. Lula had the air of an empress, and her confidence was something I admired. I also knew she wasn’t lying; she’d never let this go. It was better to tell her and get it over with. “Those men ... Romeo and his goons, they say they want money.”

She rolled her eyes. “Who doesn’t?”

Hesitating, I unthinkingly brushed my tattoo. “He knows our family has a royal heritage.”

Her hand finally released me. “Oh.” Dark disdain rolled through her like a rainstorm. She stood taller, staring down her nose at the imaginary people who had dared to offend her sensibilities. “But how could they know? Daddy has told us over and over to keep it a secret.”

I’d suspected Romeo had connections bigger than he, I just hadn’t discovered who was pulling his strings. I didn’t let the man and his goons corner me over and over because I was a masochist. Each time Romeo attacked, he gave me a bit of new info—more fragments of this complex puzzle.

But I didn’t want anyone else involved. Especially not my sister. “It doesn’t matter. Someone knows, and they’re trying to use it against me.”

“Idiots,” she scoffed. “As if they could blackmail us and get away with it. What disgusting scum.”

It was hard not to smile. Lula’s sense of right and wrong was so black-and-white. Of course, we were always on the side of good. Father had done a great job keeping my sisters away from the brutal reality of being the Badds. I knew that as time went on, whatever my father desired wouldn’t matter; Francesca and Lulabelle would learn about the violence that a Mafia family needed to use to stay in control.

But I wasn’t going to help remove that veil.

“They’re scum, yes. Scum that I can handle.”

“What, alone? Costello, we need to tell Dad. He’ll handle this.”

I stiffened. “You can’t tell Maverick.”

She started shaking her head. “You’re insane. If he doesn’t know—”

“The second he learns there are people trying to bully us, he’ll put usallunder his thumb. Lula ... think about it. He barely lets any of us out without bodyguards, do you want to have him swaddling us, giving us no privacy, worse than ever?”

There was no denying it, Maverick was a paranoid man. We all knew it, and Lula’s wide eyes said she was imagining being denied the right to go out with her friends, to go shopping, to act even somewhat normal.

She went still as stone, considering me. Suddenly she turned away. “All right. You win, I won’t tell Dad.”

The way she said it ... I should have known there was a catch.

But I didn’t.

And I’d always regret that.

I wouldn’t be ambushed so easily next time. After burying a new gun under my coat, I slid a serrated knife into my jacket sleeve. I’d suffer in the heat, but I’d have a weapon I could reach even if they tackled me and went for my pistol.

Yes. I was ready for them.

But they never came.

When several days passed, I began to wonder what was wrong. Had they given up? Could I be so lucky?

On a hazy Tuesday evening filled with the staccato noises of beetles, my phone rang. I was returning from a bar on Thayer Street, having collected protection money at my father’s instruction. Lazy Dillan—a nickname he loathed—had given me something extra to make up for being late with his payments.

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