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I wanted her to smile like that in my direction, give her laughs to me like she did with him.
Did that make sense? Was this the time for things like that? No on both counts.
But it didn't change the truth.
I didn't even bother to excuse myself as they bantered about the proper way to whip eggs, walking back toward the front door, figuring I would go outside and talk to the new guard shift, knowing I needed to feed them a story but not the whole truth.
But as I pulled the door open, I froze, finding the last person I expected standing there.
Matteo.
There was a family resembla
nce. We had the same skin color, the same eyes, the same fit builds. We had the same dark hair color as well, but where I kept mine shorter and neat, he let his grow out long, a wavy mass around his shoulders or tied up. Today, it was down.
I wasn't sure I ever saw Matteo in a suit unless he had to be. And he didn't have one on this morning either, standing there in black jeans and a white tee, looking rested and carefree.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, wondering if our father had demanded he pitch in.
"I heard we have a situation," he told me, shrugging.
"You heard we had a situation, or you heard we had a beautiful woman here?" I teased, getting a smirk out of him as he reached up to rub the back of his neck.
"Well, maybe I heard both things," he admitted.
"How much have you been told?"
"Not much. Apparently, whatever is going on is not for everyone to know."
"Lorenzo is coming to visit soon. New York is getting antsy for more. So Dad wants to make sure we play our cards close to our vests on this one."
"What, do they get an itch every two or three years?" he grumbled, even though he rarely had to deal with them himself. "So, what is going on?" he asked, moving inside when I jerked my head toward the guards out front.
"Romy told us she was told women—and specifically her sister—are being trafficked down in South America and coming in through our ports."
"Who the fuck would be that stupid?" he asked, shaking his head.
Matteo might not have been a huge part of our daily activities, but he had as much family loyalty and pride as the rest of us, immediately pissed that anyone would have the audacity to try to fuck us over.
"That's the question," I told him, nodding.
"Poor girl. Knowing her sister is being trafficked," he said, hearing Romy's tinkering laugh from the kitchen.
"Yeah," I agreed. "Are you on this with us? Or were you just dropping in for the gossip?"
"Do I detect derision, big brother?" he asked, brow raising. "I think you forget that while I might not show my face for the daily shit, when there is a problem, you can count on me."
That was true.
And it was unfair to always consider him a bit of a slacker.
He could—and would—pull his weight when it was needed. But between our father and I, it simply wasn't necessary often.
That said, if you called him and said shit was going down, he was there. And he had always been good in a crisis.
"Fair enough," I agreed.
"You look like you haven't slept in a week, so I won't take your surly ass comments personally. Can I meet her?" he asked.
