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“What are you talking about, understand each other?” I bump up against the couch and almost sink into it, but I don’t want to sit right now. He’ll only loom above me, threatening, menacing.
He leans against an easy chair, perching on the arm. “When I greeted you as little sister, I meant it quite literally. My father had an indiscretion years and years ago with a woman married to a Bruno soldier, who later became a Bruno Capo, and you are the product of that union. I learned of you a while back and I’ve been watching you ever since.”
I blink rapidly, trying to make sense of that timeline. He learned of me a while ago, which could mean weeks or months or even years, and he’s been watching me ever since. The implications are too disconcerting to consider.
“What do you want with me?”
“Ah, good, now we’re getting somewhere. I take it your mother did tell you the truth, that’s wonderful. We can skip all the denials and the ugliness.” He waves a hand in the air like he’s warding off smoke. “What I want is simple. I want to bring my sister back into the family. I want to make you one of the O’Shea clan, one of our people, the way you should be. My blood flows in your veins, even if only half. I know, I know, before you say anything, you don’t want that. You think the Bruno Famiglia means something to you, but as sure as I’m sitting here, you’re wrong, Mirella. The Bruno Famiglia is a mistake. They don’t love you and they never can. You see, to then, family means everything, and you’ll never be their family. But you are mine, whether we like it or not. And I’ll tell you, when I first found out, it didn’t feel good. I’ve come to accept it in the days since.”
I slowly sink down and sit. The couch is lumpy and old and hard, like it’s never been sat on before and the designer never imagined a human ever would. Cillian watches me carefully, studying my reactions. I’m stunned, hardly processing what’s happening. Mom wasn’t lying, I really am Cillian’s half-sister, and now he wants to drag me into his world—and pull me away from Fynn in the process. It’s too much, too hard to make all these pieces come together into a coherent narrative, one that makes any sense at all, but I can feel a seed of something begin to blossom.
Denial. Refusal. I know what this man wants, and I won’t give it to him, no matter what sort of ugly things he says about Fynn.
“I don’t know you,” I say, watching my half-brother. It’s strange to think I have a sibling now, a sibling like him. “Even if we have the same father, you’re a stranger to me. You’re nothing and nobody. Whatever you’re about to tell me, I don’t want to hear it, and I already know.”
“The Bruno Famiglia will use you,” he says seriously, his smile dissipating. “They’ll chew you up and spit you out. Like they did to that woman, the former Don’s wife, Elise. Do you know about her? I’m sure you’ve met. I bet you even like her. But don’t be fooled, she’s the shell of the woman she used to be back before Don Bruno got his old, wrinkled hands on her. Back then, she was a socialite, popular, intelligent, on her way to being a serious model, but that life was derailed and ruined. Consider that the former Don died a sudden a violent death, and the rumors all suggest that someone within their family did it. Or if you want to go further back, the former Don’s first wife, now that’s an ugly story. There are some very vicious rumors, Mirella, rumors about that poor woman getting strangled to death by her own husband. That’s a family of sharks and killers, and if you start to think you’re safe with them, they’ll cut your throat and toss you aside. You’re nothing to them, Mirella. But to me, you’re a sister.”
I shake my head, trying not to hear this. I don’t want to know the terrible gossip—even if it’s all true—because it’ll only color the Brunos however he wants. Cillian doesn’t know Karah or Nico or Elise. He doesn’t know Fynn and Gavino and Casso. But I lived with them. He can say what he wants, but it’ll always be colored by his agenda, while I experienced the family as they actually are.
I can hold on to that. I can cling to the memory of Fynn’s hands on my body, of his lips against my neck, of his arms wrapped around my hips as he holds me close against him in bed. The memory of him in the shower with me, pinning me to the wall, whispering how much he loves my body and can’t get enough of my hips and legs and lips. Fynn’s praise rings in my ears, calling me good girl and kissing me and worshiping my skin and pussy and taste. That’s the man I want, that’s the man I need. I won’t let Cillian poison what I was starting to build.
