Page 112 of Salvatore

“No. I didn’t need her to.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I look darn cute in my stonewashed jeans and pretty blouse.”

He inclines his head. “I’m not going to argue. But under my care, someone who looks like a runway model isn’t going to dress like the underprivileged. I’ll make arrangements for appropriate clothes.”

Runway model?

The compliment temporarily distracts me from the bigger picture—Ido notneed to be more indebted to this man. “I don’t want different clothes.”

He walks for the house. “Yes, you do.”

Okay,fine, I do, but—“You’re only doing this because you want me to owe you.”

“Smart girl.”

I roll my eyes. “You know I have no money, Salvatore Costa.”

He continues without pause, those expensive loafers crunching against the gravel drive. “Don’t worry,bella reina. I’m more than happy to give you an alternate repayment plan.”

24

SALVATORE

Ivy and Oliviaspend the morning filling the house with conversation, tears, and laughter.

At first I enjoy their reunion from the room beside mine as I unpack my travel bag. Then as time drags, it only grows to piss me off how easily Ivy ignores my existence while I pass the hours thinking of excuses to steal her attention.

I eat lunch alone in the recreation room—the farthest room along this side of the house—and down a scotch to smooth the harsh edges of my annoyance.

“You’re still in here?” Remy stops in the doorway. “I thought you would’ve run straight to our mother as soon as you arrived.”

I clench my teeth and line up a shot at the pool table, sending the cue ball hurtling toward the red solid.

“Does she know we’re here?” He continues a few feet into the room.

“Since when did I become a fucking oracle? Go ask her yourself.”

“I just thought you’d already know seeing how close you two are.”

I glare at the cue ball as I round the table to take another shot. “Is there a point to this conversation or are you just here togive me an excuse to kill your girlfriend once she finds out who’s hidden in the basement?”

He stiffens. “Don’t joke about shit like that.”

“Given your tense posture, brother, I don’t think you believe I’m joking,orthat you’re capable of stopping me from making good on my threat. So maybe roll up that nonexistent authority you mistakenly think you have over me, and keep your fucking mouth shut.”

He mutters something under his breath, profanity I assume, and leaves.

I finish the round of pool, polish off another scotch, and rack the balls for the next set as the squawk of Lorenzo’s birds carry from outside, the natural intruder alarm sounding on schedule.

The doorbell chimes quickly after. The distant carry of voices murmur too far out of earshot to overhear.

I keep sinking balls.

Keep downing liquor.

It isn’t long before the squeak of cheap canvas sneakers approach along the hall.

“Why is there a stunning blonde woman in my room claiming to be my stylist?” Ivy asks in mild annoyance, her audacity having some sort of siren’s call on my dick.

I ignore her like she’s ignored me all damn day and continue lining up my shot, leaning over the pool table to strike the cue ball against the solid green. The collision sounds with a thwack, my target skimming past the orange, nudging the solid blue just enough to send it rolling into the side pocket.

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