“What?” Dominic snaps, inhaling heavily to calm himself before turning around. “Apologies. What do you need?”
York shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “Tivoli has asked for you inside. Says it’s urgent.”
I move to walk with Dominic, but he stops me with a hand to my chest. “It’s okay. Enjoy your brother’s wedding. We’ll reassess tomorrow.”
I scowl in indecision.
“Go.” He taps his jacket pocket, opening it to pull out two Cuban cigars. “Find your brother, celebrate.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Camryn
The house is quiet, uncharacteristically so. Unnervingly so. A purposeful hush over the wide space that can only promise disharmony.
It should be bustling with people. Staff fluttering busily; food and drinks on a continuous loop to the guests outside.
Instead, it’s empty. Mayhem decorating the kitchen as though it was placed on pause. Everyone dismissed without warning.
I stop, listening for voices, but hear none.
I turn on high-heeled feet, moving toward my father’s office with purpose.
“York,” I call out as I approach.
He turns to me, appreciation in his beady little eyes.
Total. Creep.
“Where’s Dad? It’s time to cut the cake.”
He clears his throat, straightening his shoulders in importance.
Douche.
“He’s busy.”
My face screws up. “Yeah, no. It’s Codi’s wedding.”
“He’s with someone.” He steps in front of me, cutting off my path as I move toward the door.
“Do yourself a favor, jackass and move your ass out of my way.”
He swallows in uncertainty. “It looked important, Camryn. Two kids, I think they were snooping around the property.”
I lift my hands up in a who-fucking-cares gesture. “Cool story, bruh. Move.”
He hesitates for a split-second before shifting out of my way, muttering, “I better not get fired.”
I slip through my dad’s office door without acknowledging York further. I honestly have no idea why my dad hired him. He is insufferable. Some rich kid with a point to prove to his daddy.
“Everything okay?” I ask my dad as I step inside.
My eyes slice over the two kids sitting on Dad’s office couch automatically, their eyes watching me cautiously.
I give them my full attention, the familiarity in their gray eyes forcing my feet to take a step forward. “Holy shit,” I speak before thinking. “You look so much like—”
“Camryn,” my dad cuts me off. “We’re in the middle of something.”
“Codi wants to cut the cake,” I offer distractedly, my eyes glued to the boy in confusion.
“That’ll have to wait, I’m sorry. Can you please grab Rocco for me?”
“No need,” Rocco’s voice echoes behind me as he moves through the door. “You forgot to give me a guillotine and lighter.” He closes the door behind him, Parker a step in front.
“Fuck me,” Parker speaks first.
Why do movies pretend important events happen in slow motion? I wish that were true so I could take it all in appropriately. Instead, I’m caught between the look of utter bewilderment in Rocco’s eyes and the rough accusation in Parker’s tone. “You look exactly like me.”
I don’t know where to look.
He’s right. This kid, who can’t be much older than fifteen, is a picture of Parker with a reverse aging Snapchat filter. Same dirty blonde hair and virulent jawline. Eyes so similar, they looked plucked from Parker’s face and placed into this random child’s.
“And you’re the spitting image of Lila.” Rocco finally finds his voice, eyes trained on the young girl looking a little too entertained by the influx of people.
Parker inhales fiercely. “Fuck.”
“Who is Lila?” Her voice is like honey, sticky and sweet.
“Our mom,” the boys answer in unison.
On recollection, they’re right. She could be the girl in the photo that sits proudly on Rocco’s mantel. Long blonde hair, wolf-like eyes, not unlike her son’s, a smile of mischief and joy unmistakable.
“We shouldn’t have come,” the boy speaks, the rough regret in his voice too panicked to be comfortable. “Let’s go.” He turns to the girl, stretching out his hand.
She takes it without issue, holding on like a lifeline.
They’re connected. A set. Inseparable. It’s obvious in the way they lean on one another; both physically and emotionally.
“How do you fit?” Parker steps forward, completely lost to himself.
“That would be none of your concern, Shay,” the boy spits, hate dripping from his tongue like a poison he doesn’t want to touch.
“Jesse and Blake came to me out of appreciation,” my father speaks, moving toward the kids in caution, hoping to make them feel at ease.
Our heads all turn his way, watching on in explanation.
“They were raised by Marcus Dempsey. They tell me they saw news footage of his demise and saw my subsequent arrest.”