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I adjust my sleeves, making sure the cufflinks aren’t smudged, and stare at my reflection in the mirror. “You know why, Tommy.”
My gaze flicks over my shoulder, and I narrow my eyes at my younger brother lounging on my new slate-gray plush couch. It’s oversized and overstuffed and cost me a fucking fortune.
“If you damage my couch again, you’re going to be replacing it this time.”
Tommy stops the game of toss-up he’s playing with his favorite knife, catching it blade-first between his index finger and his thumb. “That wasn’t my fault, and you know it. It was a freak accident.” He huffs, his eyes narrow in accusation. “And I told you I’d replace it.”
I refocus on my reflection and straighten my tie. “Yeah, well, I took care of it.”
“You’re going to have to give up some control sometime, brother.”
My gaze jerks sharply to the side, but I don’t turn around this time. I feel the vitriol on my tongue before it even passes my lips. “You ready to finally shoulder some responsibility in this family?”
The snick of metal punctuates my harsh words, and I know I’ve pissed him off. I huff but say nothing as Tommy stalks from the room, shoulder-checking me as he rounds the end of my other L-shaped couch.
“Did you really have to antagonize him like that? You know he does more than his fair share for the family.” My youngest brother’s voice carries from the workspace he created in what used to be our dining room. “And the couch thing was an accident.”
I ignore his first point mostly because I don’t have a rebuttal. Tommy isn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty, and sometimes, I wonder if he prefers his own company over people.
“He set our fucking couch on fire, Rome—the six thousand dollar couch that I bought only two weeks beforehand.”
“Fuck off, Nic. It was a burn mark the size of a dime!” Tommy yells from somewhere deeper in the house.
He’s right, and at the time, it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, but I’m feeling twitchy as fuck today.
We bought the penthouse together years ago, once we realized just how fucking crazy Dad is. Since Tommy and Rome had less than zero interest in furnishing the place with any sense of cohesiveness, I did it.
It’s a softened industrial aesthetic. Something about the clean lines and plenty of black, white, and gray color scheme soothes my brain, truly making it a safe space for me to unwind.
Finally satisfied with my reflection, I follow the sounds of the keyboard keys. Kid’s a genius when it comes to the tech stuff—he started building facial recognition software before he could legally drive for Christ’s sake.
The modern-style plush rug absorbs my footfalls, not that he would stop if he could hear me coming. When he gets immersed like this, he’s near oblivious to Tommy and me. Now, if he were anywhere else, he’d never let himself stay in such a vulnerable situation. But our home—here, not the ostentatious mansion father calls home—is the one place that he can’t touch.
Somewhere that all of us can unload the heavy burdens of being Vito Santorini’s sons and be ourselves. Whatever the fuck that means.
I’ve been under his tutelage for so long, sometimes I worry that I’m going to wake up and not recognize myself in the mirror. The thought of me turning into my father haunts me.
I shake off the morose thoughts. There’s no room for those today—I don’t have time to do the shit I normally do to pull myself out of that spiral. We have to leave in thirty minutes to make it to the chapel.
With that thought pressing against me, I pitch my voice louder. “C’mon, man. We gotta go soon. I wouldn’t put it past those assholes to lock us out if we’re late.”
I roll my eyes at Rome’s lack of response. He’s not even listening to me. Stopping in front of his four large monitors that shield my brother from view, I rap my knuckles on the blonde oak dining room table that serves as a massive desk. “Rome.”
He jerks his head between the monitors and looks at me with wide eyes. “Yeah?”
“We’re out in thirty. I don’t want to be late.”
His gaze darts back to the screen. “Let me wrap this up.”
I tip my chin up and walk around the desk to look at his screens. All four of them are on—some of them have straight text on a black screen. “What’re you working on?”
He cuts his gaze back to the monitors before he starts closing browsers and other shit that looks more complicated than I have the desire to understand.
“Nothing, just fucking around until we have to go.” His response is quick enough that it grabs my attention. I cock my head to the side and look at him.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Rome. Tell Nic all about your little infatuation with the Wren.” Tommy strolls into the dining room with his hands shoved in the pockets of his suit pants, his charcoal blazer pulling taught across his chest. It looks familiar, but most of my wardrobe is suits, so they start to roll together sometimes.
“Wren?”
