Page 11 of Effortless

“Zeke is having a house party tonight.”

Camilla did like the sound of that. “Who’s going?”

“Our people,” her brother said. “Some you know, and some you don’t. Better than a club.”

“That’s debatable. Besides, it’ll be awesome because I’m going. Anywhere I go is fucking awesome, thank you very much.”

“Yes, Camilla, because you vomit glitter and piss fabulous. I don’t need the lecture again.”

“Is it a lecture if it’s true?”

She grinned at him.

He just shook his head.

“You love me,” she said.

“Just enough not to hate you, sure,” Cross replied. “I don’t know how you manage to have a hangover and still be this annoying first thing in the morning.”

“Or is it that you don’t like how I turn conversations around on you.”

“You know what, it’s both.”

Camilla smiled sweetly at him, but said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

Her point was made.

It was another forty-five minutes of Cross and Camilla seeing who could annoy the other the most before her brother pulled into the parking lot of a familiar restaurant. Inside the cozy, homey decorated Newport bistro, they found their parents already waiting at a table close to the windows, and with a spread of food on the table.

Camilla’s hangover was all but gone.

Her stomach growled instead.

She put the thoughts of food aside for the moment to deal with greeting her waiting parents. They always came first when the two were in the room. She loved Calisto and Emma beyond measure because they never forgot to love her—ever.

Her dad, always her hero and supporter, stood to give Camilla a tight, one-armed hug that still reminded her of the man who used to have pretend tea parties and let her paint his fingernails. Only once, though.

Once her father let her go, Camilla bent down to kiss the apple of her mother’s cheek with a smile. Emma was another cornerstone for Camilla—never failing, always holding strong, and loving her through the rest.

“Figured we better send Cross over to get you when you didn’t pick up my call,” Calisto said as he took his seat.

Camilla sat beside her father.

Cross took the chair beside their mom.

“I was out late,” Camilla said. “Didn’t hear anything until Cross bulled his way into my place.”

Her brother shot her a look.

Camilla shrugged.

Her parents didn’t ask a thing about where she had been, or what she had been doing the night before. They never did. At nineteen, almost twenty, Camilla didn’t have a lot of rules enforced down upon her by her parents. Really, they had never strapped her or Cross down with rules or demands.

She knew that she was lucky. Other principessas—girls like her with an Italian, Cosa Nostra boss for a father—were not as fortunate. Their life did not allow for very much freedom. Yet, her father made sure she had as much semblance of freedom as he could allow without being unsafe.

A good example was the enforcer she knew was on her watch. Or rather, the couple of men who rotated to keep an eye on her. Her father made her aware of the men, but also made it clear they did not report back on Camilla’s whereabouts or anything else she did. They were just there—in the background of her life—to keep her safe should something happen. They kept a healthy distance, and otherwise, gave her privacy.