The Chosen Heir: A Dark Romanian Mafia Romance (The Lupu Chronicles Book 1) by Monique Moreau

Author:Monique Moreau [Moreau, Monique]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-05-19T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

I was in my bedroom, gnawing on my thumbnail as I reviewed the dismal array of clothes in my closet, when I heard a soft knock at my door. Like a special ringtone, I knew it was Yo-Yo. My mother never knocked. She just entered, regardless of what I was doing. Sauntering in, my brother fell into the office chair at my desk and sprawled out his long legs like an overgrown colt.

“How can you stand sleeping in this room anymore? You’re drowning in pink,” he remarked with a shudder of his broad shoulders as he surveyed the pale-pink-and-white duvet, the matching pink of the curtains, and the pink pillows bordered in ruffles. While it was no longer my taste, I hadn’t changed the decoration since high school, because Mother liked it. Both Tasa and I bemoaned our mother’s horrid tastes in decorations. An additional reason for wanting my own home and family.

Giving him a light shrug, I said, “I live with Mother’s taste here and Tasa’s mom’s decorating aesthetic in the city. Of the two, this one is more cheerful.”

“Good point,” he conceded.

Taking a pen from the penholder on my desk, he twirled it between his fingers and said, “I don’t get it. He’s as controlling as Mother. You’re about to graduate and finally be free of every responsibility she’s thrown at you and you go shackle yourself to a man? Especially him. Not only is he dangerous, but he screams control issues.”

“Spying on me, were you?”

Putting aside my hopeless struggle to decide what to wear, I dragged out my suitcase and flung it open on the delicate pink-and-cream floral rug. Influenced by Tasa’s mom, Mother went through a phase of investing in nice rugs. Which no one was allowed to walk on. Half our childhood had been spent skirting the rugs on the floor of the living room, even though we didn’t walk with our shoes in the house. It was a huge moment when Mother had rolled out this rug for my sixteenth birthday.

He shrugged. “You’re my sister. I knew something was up when you came in earlier, but what with the volcano downstairs, I couldn’t bring it up. You’re moving back into the city, aren’t you?”

“I need a break. You’re not totally wrong about Alex,” I conceded, “but the difference is that he listens to me. He’s not irrational. Quite the opposite, in fact. Getting him to embrace human emotions in his decision-making process is a challenge. Maybe I’m attracted to the controlling part of him, having grown up with Mother. But the big distinction is that I hold a degree of power. I’ve seen how my words impact his decisions.”

“He makes you think you have a voice, but you don’t,” he countered in a grumpy tone. Like most almost-eighteen-year-olds, Yo-Yo thought he knew everything. I didn’t bother to correct him. This wasn’t his life; it was mine, and I didn’t have to justify myself to him.

“Yo-Yo, you barely know him. When it came to Tasa, he listened to me.

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