Page 40 of Brutal Revenge

A lot longer.

I thought Azra would sit stiffly, barely speak, and glare at everyone the way she glares at me when I piss her off. Instead, she settles in effortlessly, as if she’s had a seat at the table for years instead of minutes.

Even Camille warms to her.

That confession shocks me the most.

Up until last week, Camille hadn’t spoken a word in six months. Not since she arrived on our doorstep on the hip of her “mother.”

Don’t burn Lucia at the stake just yet. She wasn’t lying when she said their story was long. Azra heard some of it during breakfast, but it will take months to fully unravel the web of betrayal that Dante, Lucia, and Camille faced just one week ago.

Yet Camille sits beside Azra as if everything she knew wasn’t turned upside down only days ago, showing her drawing with a shy pride I haven’t seen in a long time. Azra doesn’t treat her like she’s a fragile toy that might break at the slightest provocation. She treats her as if she’s capable. Like she’s normal.

She even shows Camille how to make the metal pole the kid insists on drawing in every picture appear real. She adds shine with an array of different light-colored pencils and blends the edges.

Camille’s mouth gapes as if she’s witnessing magic.

Maybe she is.

I feel like I’m stuck in a fantasy, so a kid who still believes in fairy tales doesn’t stand a chance.

By the time we stand to leave, the staff has cleared the buffet table, and Camille is fighting not to cry. Dante tries not to notice her tears, but the twitching of his jaw is extremely telling.

Azra says goodbye to everyone, as if mornings like this won’t happen again.

I don’t like how that sits in my chest, but I push aside my unease when her farewell occurs without the usual taunting I bring to each gathering. None of my brothers pretend to feel her up when she hugs them, and her legs remain hump-free.

For a second, it has me reconsidering my stance on how I farewell Valentina and Lucia, but can I really call myself the dreaded middle child if I don’t rub my schlong along my future sisters-in-law’s legs?

With Giovanni reaching for his gun and Dante on the verge of a coronary, I scoop Azra’s hand in mine and lead her to the main entrance so she can put on her shoes. “Come on. Slutty dresses aren’t going to buy themselves.”

Once her pink-painted toenails are covered, I direct her toward the garage instead of the SUVs lined up out front.

Azra stiffens. “Why are we going this way?”

Maintaining my lengthy strides, I answer, “We’re taking my motorcycle to town.”

When she halts, my hand slips from her back. “No. Absolutely not.”

Needing to hide the pulse fluttering in my neck from her angry stare, I clutch her wrist and drag her down the gravel driveway. “It’s faster.”

“I don’t care if it’s faster. I’d rather walk.”

“It’s a forty-minute walk to town.”

“Perfect. Great. I love walking.”

Still striding forward, I crank my neck to face her. “Those shoes weren’t designed for hiking.”They’re only suitable for scratching my back while your thighs hug my ears.

“I don’t care.” After maneuvering free from my grip, she folds her arms under her fantastic tits, worsening my already deviant thoughts. “I’m not getting on that death trap.”

“It’s not a death trap.”

“It has two wheels.”

“That’s how bikes work.”

“It doesn’t have any doors.”