Deviant Prince [Romano Brotherhood, #2]

18 | Vivienne

It's no secret that my siblings and I aren't particularly close. For most of our lives, there's been a gulf between us. But it wasn't there when we were kids.

We used to have a game, the three of us. I'm not sure who started it, but we called it 'Mummy.' Chloe and Joseph would pick me up, one at my legs and one at my shoulders. They'd then parade me through the house while I pretended to be, well, a mummy. It's a silly thing to remember, but it's the last time I can recall the three of us having anything in common.

Shortly after that, we all grew up. It wasn't long before I became aware of that gulf between us. Chloe was always good at being the center of attention—but for the right reasons, unlike me. She was pleasantly charming, not so stubborn and sarcastic. She got her big break on social media around the same time Joseph discovered his talents lay in the family business. My brother has an eidetic memory, meaning he can look at something once and recall it perfectly. 

At that time, I was still a moody teenager whose preferred pastimes were locking myself in my bedroom to listen to my favorite bands or sneaking out with my friends to get drunk in their hot tubs. I wasn't showing signs of being good at anything. Unlike my siblings, I didn't have that one talent that stood out.

After parenting two wildly successful children, my parents took one look at me and had no idea what the hell to do. So they mostly left me alone. My siblings did too, once they realized that constantly criticizing my life choices only drove a wedge further between us. 

Which is why the text from my sister to our family group chat shouldn't surprise me. And it actually doesn't—but worse? It stings. Just a little.

It's a short message, thanking us for attending her company's gala this past weekend. She knows how I feel about all her shallow influencer friends, but I've always been there for her milestones when I can. Watching my family's replies stream in only adds to the sting. They don't even seem to know I wasn't there. Nobody acknowledges it. And worse, their texts tell me they've been looking forward to this event for months. And I'm just finding out about it now.

I set my phone down to curl the last section of my hair. By the time I'm done, I've managed to get past those unnecessary negative feelings caused by my family. Because you just can't feel shitty when you look good. And standing in Massimo's bathroom in the tight, backless emerald dress that makes my tits look about two cup sizes bigger than they are, I'm sure I'll be getting good tips tonight.

I play to my strengths. And I'm good at what I do. At connecting with people in unlikely circumstances. It can take one conversation or one thoughtfully timed compliment, and before long, people give me what I want. At my job, I may meet a Forbes billionaire one second and a member of the Mexican cartel the next. I like the lack of predictability. I also like the fact that out of all the bartenders, I bring in the most tips. It doesn't hurt to be the best at something for once.

Shrugging on my jacket, I tiptoe down the hallway with my heels in hand. It's been hours, and Massimo is still asleep on the couch. He hasn't moved once—arms crossed protectively over his chest, legs spread, head tilted at an uncomfortable looking angle. I've actually had to check a few times that he's still breathing.

After the bastard drifted off, I ended up Googling to my heart's content—I needed something to distract me from the knifelike sensation in my chest at seeing him like that. And it turns out it's very common for someone to absolutely conk out after a seizure.

He hasn't been completely out of it though. Because he did mumble a name in his sleep. Cora.

He said it twice, but it's not like I was counting.