Page 23 of Salvatore

I walkalong the footpath bordering the funeral home, unable to wipe the Ivy-inspired grin from my face as I click Matthew’s fob incessantly.

It isn’t until I reach the back of the building that the lights of a glossy Rolls Royce flash at me from beside the funeral home hearse. I’m halfway to the driver’s door when bleating sobs and hiccupped cries carry from the far side of the building.

I pause, my grin fading as Remy carries a blubbering Olivia into view, the stark pain in his features cutting off any insults I would’ve normally thrown his way.

Our father died, and Remy never once looked like this.

Our mother instigated the harshest of atrocities, yet this is the first time I’ve seen him utterly devastated.

I continue to the car and open the rear door for them, keeping my mouth shut as he settles them both in the back seat.

I don’t taunt him for the obvious display of weakness toward the woman. I don’t make fun of him for curling her into his side and murmuring sweet nothings in her ear as she cries uncontrollably, even though I’m tempted.

I may not understand the affection he’s giving—I guess I’m the only sibling who lacks an addiction to companionship—butI was aware of Remy’s temperamental state well before Abri felt the need to tell me about it.

He’s lost two people he cared about this year—Carlo and a teenage boy he took in from the streets and treated like a brother. Two people who seemed to fill the hole in him that our parents had carved.

Yet all his grief has shown me is the bitter divide between us.

We’re not the same. Not even close.

I’m unlike my siblings.

Remy was the baby. Abri was the beauty. And for almost two decades Matthew was the heir.

There was no predefined role for me. I wasn’t one of the perfect puzzle pieces that fit our family unit. No, I was the dust that collected in the corners of the discarded box. The spare to the heir, only seen or heard when I grew bored of being ignored and decided to cause trouble.

I was nothing.

Of no benefit.

Entirely useless.

Until Matthew ran away from home, and all those nights spent wishing I had even a glimmer of my parents’ attention came back to bite me on the fucking ass.

I drive slowly past the side of the funeral home, hoping to allow those in the wake room time to catch a glimpse of the guest of honor leaving, while also indulging in another quick glance at my troublemaker in the courtyard.

She remains on the park bench, sitting tall as she dabs under her eyes with a tissue.

As if sensing my stare, her focus turns my way, her hardening gaze having the same unnerving effect on my dick as the first night we met. She glances away almost violently in dismissal, her scrutiny straying to the back seat.

My pulse thunders as her face falls.

The shock of seeing her friend in my car is like a checkmate in a game of chess I hadn’t known I’d been playing.

Her eyes widen. She shoves to her feet, all the while I’m smirking like a fucking circus clown as I inch my foot down on the accelerator, never having felt this invigorated while also theorizing whether I’m certifiable or not for my reaction to a grieving woman at a funeral.

Ten hours later, I’m still stuck mulling over my response as I’m held hostage by two of my siblings in a VIP booth at Remy’s nightclub.

Apparently us all being in the same city at the same time means I’m obligated to spend time with them, even though they make no effort to hide their judgment of me.

How I’m the black sheep.

How I’m emotionally stunted.

How I’ve been voted Most Likely to Ruin All Their Lives due to whatever clinical diagnosis they want to label me with this week.

“Has anyone heard from Remy?” Matthew asks over the club music as he weaves an arm around Layla’s shoulders in the closest corner of the booth.

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