Page 5 of The Mafia's Bride
“You’ll be out. Maeve has the power to take all of this away.” Shegestures to my designer grey trench coat, the muddy black heels. “Her word is law. She’s not like Pops. She won’t give you second chances.”
That anger grows into a near inferno.
Second chances? Getting a black eye was a second chance?
It’s never been more apparent than now, that Collins and I were raised wholly differently by the same man. Just like Maeve, Collins never stopped what he did to me. Did she even know? Did she care?
“So get in line, right?” I seethe, glaring at my older sister. “Be nice, say thank you, and kiss her ass so she doesn’t take away my credit card?”
“Sloane,” she pleads, shaking me slightly. “If she kicks you out, that’s it. You don’t get to see us anymore. Can you really go on without a family?”
A family that always made me feel like an outsider? An older sister who lived in a perfect bubble, the one I wished for? The oldest who always left me to fend for myself? A nonexistent brother who couldn’t bother to show up to a funeral, just so I could make sure he was alright?
I turn away, watching the priest drop wet dirt on to the casket, a final cross being etched above my father’s dead body. Rain pours and it hits the casket in an easy beat that echoes in my head, as my blood pounds.
Swallowing that anger, I can’t stop it from tainting my words. “Don’t worry, Col. I won’t embarrass you or Maeve. I’ll be the perfect sister.”
Collins sighs. “It’s not about embarrassing us, Sloane. It’s about what you do. How many times have the papers caught you snorting something or in compromising situations?”
I can’t even count that high. Too many times.
Instead of asking why I did those things, care about my reasons, my sister just judges. She doesn’t care that all those times out were from my fights with Pops, or a way to drive away the numbness. The numbness that always seemed to sneak in, reminding me of how abandoned I felt. How alone I am.
No, Collins only saw what Pops did. That I’m a fuck-up.
“Right. Sorry we’re not all perfect like you.”
Collins clears her throat, used to my lashing out. “I’m not perfect. But if you could stop getting so messed up that you can’t find your way home, or stop making out with Danica?—”
“Pops isn’t even cold yet, Col,” I interrupt, glaring at a few onlookers, turning to catch our argument. “Let’s save something for the ride home.”
My sister huffs out a breath, cursing under her breath. “You know she’s not good for you. She never has been. She’s toxic, always getting you into trouble or drugs?—”
“And you look terrible in brown, but yet you still continue to wear it.” I take in her designer Mary Janes, the brown wool jacket critically, letting her see my irritation.
She winces, tugging her coat closer, giving me space.Mission accomplished.
I am not in the mood to deal with another argument about why my friend-turned hookup is bad for me. She’s been the only constant in my life, since I came out to Pops. Sure, she isn’t the most trustworthy and is self-centered, but she’s been the only person to not judge me for anything I’ve done. Most of it with her.
With Danica, I’m not the resident fuck-up. I’m not too loud. Too much. I’m just Sloane.
Everyone starts dropping roses on to Pops’ coffin, pulling us from our heated debate.
Shaking her head, Collins mumbles something under her breath as she leads us over. We’re almost to the casket before our oldest sister cuts us off, her chin dripping with rain, clothes soaked.
She looks windswept and storm-beaten, but her shoulders don’t fall, her spine doesn’t bow. In fact, she stands straighter. Looking around, I see most of the crowd is gone, including the three board members, leaving just the three daughters of Ferguson O’Brien in the cemetery.
Her cold eyes rake over my form, assessing, before doing the same to Collins. Her gaze tears into us. Looking for weaknesses. Because that’s what we are now to Maeve. Liabilities.
We’ve gone from family to nothing more than clan members she has to watch.
“Ready to go?” Behind her, the blacked-out G-Class sits in the rain, her best friend Hayes Monticello waiting for us.
Tall, broad shouldered with chestnut locks tied into a high bun, he screams power and purpose. And he’s the right kind of distraction I need to beat back this numbness and avoid my sisters. Too bad he doesn’t bother with me.
Maeve doesn’t wait for our answer, turning on her heels. She doesn’t even look at Pops’ grave, doesn’t throw a flower in with him, doesn’t say a final prayer. Nothing.
Collins grabs two red roses, holding one out to me. When I take it, she turns, offering a quiet goodbye before taking the umbrella from me.
