Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,9

crying?” Serwa asks, frowning.

“Tata found out about Parsons.”

“Oh,” Serwa says. She knew I was applying. She was too kind to tell me it was a terrible idea. “Was he angry?”

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, hugging me. “Cambridge is lovely, though. You’ll like it there.”

Serwa went, just like she was supposed to. She graduated with distinction, with a master’s in macroeconomics. She was offered an analyst position with Lloyd’s of London, but before she could start, she caught pneumonia three times in a row.

My sister has Cystic Fibrosis. My parents have paid for every type of treatment under the sun. And often, she gets better for months at a time. Or at least, she’s well enough to attend school or travel. But always, right when she’s on the cusp of her next achievement, it brings her low again.

It’s been the shadow hanging over our family all along. The knowledge that Serwa’s life is likely to be shorter than ours. That we only have her for so long.

That would be tragic in and of itself. What’s worse is that my sister happens to be the kindest person I’ve ever known. She’s gentle. She’s warm. She never has a bad word to say about anyone. And she’s always been there to help me and support me, even when her lungs are drowning and she’s weak from coughing.

She’s still so pretty, despite her illness. She reminds me of a doll, with her round face, dark eyes, flushed cheeks, and hair pulled back from a straight center-part. She’s petite and delicate. I wish I could hold her like a doll and protect her from anything awful happening to her.

I don’t tell Serwa about the kiss. It’s too bizarre and embarrassing. I’ve never behaved like that before. She’d be shocked. I’m shocked at myself, quite honestly.

“Well, I’m glad you’re safe,” Serwa says, squeezing my hand. My hand is bigger than hers. All of me is bigger—I grew taller than her when I was only ten years old.

“I love you, onuabaa,” I say.

“I love you, too,” she says.

Serwa goes back to her own room. After a moment I can hear the sound of her vibrating vest whirring away, knocking the mucus out of her airways.

I put on headphones, because that sound makes me sad.

I lay in my bed, listening to my Apocalypse playlist. I never listen to peaceful music to go to sleep.

I squirm under the covers, remembering the moment my lips met the lips of the thief . . . heat flooded through my body like a match thrown into dry grass. The flame spread in all directions, consuming everything in its path.

It was over in an instant, but it keeps repeating again and again in my brain . . .

I drift off to the sounds of “Zombie” by the Cranberries.

Zombie—The Cranberries (Spotify)

Zombie—The Cranberries (Apple Music)

4

Dante

I can’t stop thinking about Simone.

Her elegance, her beauty, her composure even when I was speeding across the city with her trapped in the back of the car . . .

I know it’s insane.

I looked up her father. He’s some fancy diplomat from Ghana who also happens to be as rich as a Pharaoh. He’s got a string of hotels from Madrid to Vienna.

My family is far from poor. But there’s a big difference between mafia money and international hotelier money. Both in volume and legitimacy.

Not to mention the fact that Simone and I met under less than ideal circumstances. I have no idea what she told the cops. I can only assume it wasn’t much, since nobody’s come banging on my door yet. Still, it would be idiotic to start poking around her neighborhood, just begging to be spotted.

Yet, three nights later, that’s exactly what I’m doing.

I found the massive Lincoln Park mansion that Solomon rented at the start of the summer. It wasn’t difficult—the thing takes up almost an entire city block when you include the grounds. It looks like the fucking Palace of Versailles. Endless expanses of white limestone and pillars and ornate balconies. Gardens all around, plenty of trees, and three separate swimming pools.

Solomon has a security staff, but they’re not exactly on high alert. It’s pretty fucking easy to sneak onto the grounds and watch the house from the outside.

I came around dinner time. I can’t see the family—I don’t know whether they’re eating in one of the interior rooms or taking their meals separately. But I can see two of the security guards dicking around in the kitchen with a maid and some girl who’s