Page 58 of Thorns of Love

“She is.” Her eyes lifted off the screen, her green emeralds pensive. “Phoenix was rejected when she initially applied for the music program at our school. So Reina applied on the caveat that her older sister would be accepted. I think she knew all along Phoenix would need her, and it was the reason she worked extra hard in high school. She finished high school two years ahead. She’s twenty-one, Phoenix is twenty-three.” That confirmed the age. “Anyhow, Reina took double majors, fashion design for herself, and music for her sister.”

I raised my eyebrows. “That’s impressive.”

“Phoenix is impressive too,” she retorted. “It’s just that nobody would give her an opportunity to flourish because she was deaf. So Reina took it into her own hands.”

“I think I want to be Reina when I grow up,” I muttered, suddenly feeling lacking.

Isla chuckled. “Yeah, me too.”

My eyes returned to the screen and my mouth dropped. The screen switched from the fashion show to the after party. And to say Isla and her friends danced like strippers would be an understatement. Bruno Mars’ “Bubble Butt” played and the girls were smacking their asses and dancing like their whole purpose in life was to seduce men.

Mission accomplished because all the men had their eyes on them. My brows furrowed. Holy fuck! Was that Aiden Callahan? His eyes narrowed, displeasure clear in them. The question was at whom it was aimed.

With Marchetti on the other hand, I didn’t have to guess.

Isla danced seductively, her eyes flickering to Enrico Marchetti. He was stoic but the way his eyes burned on Isla and the murderous looks he sent the other men in the room betrayed him.

There was more going on with my sister-in-law than she led on. She might be harboring some secrets of her own. Although one thing I knew for sure. My husband might be withholding information from me but I’d get them on my own.

Isla would be my ticket to get close to Enrico Marchetti.

* * *

“Ne, ne, ne.”

The chef shook his head in disapproval as Isla and I minced rosemary and garlic. There was something about cutting up vegetables and the repetitive motion that was relaxing. Well, it would be if the chef wouldn’t utter ‘ne, ne, ne’ every three minutes.

The two of us shared a look and rolled our eyes. “Pavlev, we want Italian food, not Russian today.”

The look of blasphemy he gave us was comical. Both of us held our grins in, trying not to burst into laughter. The cook waved his hands in the air, then stormed off.

I reached in front of me where a veggie tray sat and picked up a cucumber, then threw it in my mouth.

“I don’t know why he gets upset whenever I suggest Italian food,” Isla said as I chewed on my veggies. “He has the personality of an Italian.”

I chuckled. “You know any Italians with that flamboyant of a personality?”

Both of us burst into laughter.

“I know some hot ones,” she remarked, giving up on mincing the garlic.

“Like Enrico Marchetti?” I teased. Her cheeks flushed. It was killing me not to know. Besides, I wanted to see if there was a way I could get in touch with him. If there was something with her and Marchetti, which I was certain there was, she’d be able to hook me up with him. “Or is there a hotter Italian than that daddy?”

She giggled softly. “He is a hot daddy, isn’t he? And I don’t even know if he has kids.”

“That’s not the kind of daddy I’m talking about.”

Isla’s eyes gleamed and laughter floated through the kitchen. She padded over to the little stereo and started flipping through the channels. She settled on a classical music channel. Definitely not my first choice, but I let her have it. For now.

“Want some wine?” I offered.

“Oh, yes. Pour it in.” So I poured her a glass of wine, then readied to pour myself one. My movement paused, a bottle hovering above the glass. “Shit,” I muttered.

“You okay?”

“Yep.” It was such a habit to pour myself a drink. But I kicked that habit to the curb. For my babies. For my well-being. “The question is whether you’re okay?”

Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”