Page 22 of Heartless Sinner

Seraphina shook her head before stealing the rest of the roll off Gemma’s plate. “And you’re supposed to have the signature Marchetti loyalty. I’m disappointed, Gem. Truly disappointed.”

Gemma grabbed another roll and chucked it straight at her head.

“I’m about to ground you, my bratty little niece,” Seraphina warned around a mouthful of bread.

Understanding the Marchetti family tree required diagrams and a doctorate.

Seraphina and Gemma were the same age, even though Seraphina was technically her aunt.

Monster Marchetti robbed the cradle and married Seraphina’s mom, who also happened to be Gemma’s mom’s best friend.

“Are you sure you’re ready to join this circus?” Gemma asked Blair, brushing crumbs off her sleeve. “It seriously comes with warning labels and NDAs out the ass.”

Blair lifted her glass toward them, a shy smile pulling at her mouth. “I love that you’re welcoming me into your family.”

When Blair had come to Saint Vale, she’d had no one. Now, she had an entire family who loved her.

Granted, they were unhinged and murderous, but family was family.

I was happy for her.

“Next time, I hope you’ll come with me,” I said to no one in particular, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my skirt. “Calira is a blast.”

Funny how we’d switched places.

Blair had a family now.

And I felt as lonely as she once had.

Maybe going home was exactly what I needed.

I could distance myself from Brooks and figure out how to stop him from claiming me as his Fawn.

I’d never belong to him.

Over my dead freaking body.

Four

Brooks

Wind whipped across the tarmac as I stepped off the 747 in DC and found a swarm of reporters waiting for me.

Fucking great.

I considered walking straight past them. Then I remembered ignoring reporters wasn’t great for the future-president image.

“Brooks!” people shouted.

Their shrill voices made me want to rip my damn eardrums out.

Cameras flashed around me. I gave them the smile I’d been trained to wear since I had baby teeth. Damn, this shit hurt my face sometimes.

“How’s your dad?” one reporter asked.

“Are you scared you’ll be the next victim of an assassination attempt?” another asked. “That a bullet could strike you at any time?”

“Of course not,” I replied before making a show of peering back at Philip standing behind me wearing dark sunglasses. “I trust my Secret Service with my life.”