Page 56 of Thorns of Death

EIGHTEEN

ISLA

Illias Konstantin was the Pakhan. My brother was a criminal. The latter somehow didn’t surprise me; the former shocked me. Illias wasn’t just involved in shady shit, he was running it.

And still my love for him didn’t waver. It turned out maybe I wasn’t a good person either, because it didn’t shake me as badly as it should have. I mean, it was just a title. It was no different than being CEO of some big corporation. Right?

Okay, maybe slightly different.

And then there were the messages from my hot daddy after Phoenix sent him a video of me and my friends dancing our asses off and lip-syncing to “Truth Hurts.” It just so happened that those lyrics fit our situation perfectly. It was a final “fuck you” to Daddy Enrico. That was two days ago, and now I had to block his number. Because the reply I received from the man had gotten me all hot and bothered, making me more than willing to entertain him for another round of sexual fantasies.

For your insolence, next time I see you, you’ll get my cock and my hand on your ass at the same time.

Good thing I wouldn’t be seeing him again.

I let out a frustrated breath and focused on the situation at hand. I was in Illias’s office. I’d already checked his sock and underwear drawer as my girlfriends suggested. There was nothing worthwhile there, and I felt extremely uncomfortable going through my brother’s boxers.

So I was back in his pristine office. Reina claimed there had to be a secret compartment in here somewhere, and that nobody kept their office this spotless. He had to have a place where he hid the important stuff.

Every man has secret compartments. Are you sure you checked every single corner?

I yanked the phone off the desk and typed back lots of angry emojis.

I have checked every inch. I’m telling you, there isn’t crap here.

My phone buzzed again. Phoenix’s text message glared back at me.

She’s probably been dreaming about her Italian daddy so much she can’t focus.

Another buzz. Athena’s snickering message followed.

What are you going to do if he prefers business women over artists?

Phoenix’s message chimed.

You mean smart women? We’re all smart. We just prefer our artistic selves.

I could already hear them all laughing their heads off. It was the only downfall of group messaging with your best friends. Everyone always ganged up on you, then rode your ass. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I couldn’t resist replying.

If he likes intellectual responses, I could just beg the hot daddy, “Oh, my patriarchal Italian figure, please restrict my airflow.” That’d get him going.

Well, that got them going. My phone buzzed like an alarm clock that couldn’t be turned off.

I even got a voice recording of Athena singing in her soprano voice a made-up lyric, “Look at this foxy, foxy. Look at this silver fox, daddy go. I need his cock and rock.”

I snickered, typing back while her voice kept playing in the background.

This hot daddy is not silver. He has plenty of thick, dark hair.

After twenty smartass messages and silly GIFs, I sent another text. They really had to stop acting so immature.

Let’s forget the damn patriarchal daddy here and focus on the task at hand. PLEASE.

Phoenix’s reply was instantaneous.

Ladies, let’s not be mean to Isla. She needs inspiration and some dick.