Page 32 of Thorns of Desire
“Can’t wait. She’s stuck with me now.” He grinned, his eyes darting to the window. I had never seen him this settled before.
“Pussy-whipped,” I muttered under my breath, reaching for a pen. “Did you come here with a purpose or do you need me to calm your fluttering heart?”
He flipped me a bird. “Vaffanculo.”
I snorted. “Some of us have real work to do.”
His eyes flitted to my laptop, then back up. “What are you working on?”
“Harvest, wine, and olive numbers from Tivona and Tuscany.” The Marchetti empire was going strong, but I enjoyed building businesses from scratch and seeing them flourish. Over the past twenty years, I’d built an empire of my own,independent of the Thorns of Omertà. I was born into the criminal world and more than likely I’d die in it, but I’d leave alegitimatelegacy behind too. “And I have architectural designs to review for the Amalfi project.”
Enrico nodded. He understood the need not to be consumed solely by the Omertà. After all, before his brother died, he wanted nothing to do with this world.
“I need a favor.” Now that got my attention. He never asked for anything. “Isla is very close with her friends.” I waited for him to continue as he handed me a piece of paper. “After church tomorrow, can you go to this address, pick up the girls—you’ll recognize them, they’ll be wearing bridesmaid dresses—and then bring them over for our wedding dinner?”
“How many girls?”
“Four. Two of them are Romero’s girls.”
“Enzo and Amadeo will be in heaven tomorrow,” I remarked dryly. “Surrounded by beautiful women. It’s a dream come true for any teenage boy.” We both snickered, but I didn’t miss the satisfied smile playing around his mouth. “Isla will be good for them.” He nodded, a pensive expression lingering in his eyes. “Will you tell her the truth?”
The truth was related to our family, and only a handful of us knew about it. It would be dangerous for all of us—especially the boys—if that secret was exposed.
“Yes, I want her to understand.”
I nodded. “It’s the only way to start a marriage.”
A good marriage anyhow.
THIRTEEN
ATHENA
Crossing paths with Manuel Marchetti might have been dangerous, but I wasn’t complaining. He’d inspired my creativity and I planned to milk that for all it was worth.
The conversation I’d overheard between him and my mother had been running on a loop for the past three days. When I’d asked my mother about her morning, she flat-out lied, stating she’d had a spa treatment while I was out on my walk.
So, I took it upon myself to do some research. I looked up the Triads, and what I learned turned my blood cold. They were known as one of the most ruthless mafia organizations in the world. Why would they be looking for my mother? The Google search had only resulted in more questions.
And then I caved and looked up Atticus Popov. A businessman with mile-long allegations of corruption. There were many pictures of him—from the time he was young to what seemed as recent as this year. The man definitely didn’t shy away from the attention. As I flipped through them, I saw similar features, albeit different color eyes. A patrician nose. Arrogantsmile. His son, Danil, was handsome, much like his father, but there was something in his icy blue eyes and blank expression that set my teeth on edge.
There were barely any photos of Atticus with his children and his deceased wife, but there were many with models, actresses, and what I imagined were escorts.
I went back to the photograph of Danil and Nicki Popov—my half-siblings, something I was still reeling over—and as I studied them, I felt… nothing. Zip. Nada. Was that normal?
I closed my eyes while invisible cold fingers wrapped around my throat and cut off my breath. The world spun so fast I feared I was going to be sick and a tear escaped my closed lids, running down my cheek.
I couldn’t understand this reaction. Maybe the vault in which I buried a lot of my fears was finally failing. Or maybe I wasn’t as unaffected by the revelation of my newfound siblings as I tried to convince myself.
“That doesn’t change anything,” I muttered under my breath, although I didn’t think I was convincing even myself.
With a shake of my head, I returned to the open file on my laptop and double-clicked. The only way my brain could shut down all the what-if scenarios surrounding recent events was by losing myself to my writing.
I was hours into plotting my next novel when a sharp knock sounded at the door. I ignored it, waiting for one of the girls to answer as I furiously typed on my laptop, words flowing from my fingertips like never before. I was convinced it had everything to do with the man I’d spent the night with several weeks ago.
Another knock on the door and I let out an exasperated breath.
“The door,” I yelled. Nothing, all the girls still hiding in their rooms.
