Page 32 of Thorns of Death
She chuckled, her eyes glimmering. “Damn straight, Mr. Marchetti. You’re at my place; you follow my rules.”
“You live here alone?” I asked curiously, although I already knew the answer. I wanted to see what Isla Evans was about.
“No, my best friends and I rent this place. We wanted something of our own.”
“Ah.”
She tilted her head, studying me. “And you? Live alone?”
“Here in Paris, for the most part. Back in Italy, I have two sons and a few other family members”—and guards, but I kept that to myself—“who all live on my property.”
“That would drive me nuts,” she muttered. “Aside from the kids. I bet somebody’s always in your business.”
“No, not really.” Aside from Manuel, nobody dared get into my business. I kept my tone light and casual, but there was so much that hung in the air. Secrets. Questions. It was clear she was testing me when she asked questions about Donatella. It was my turn to test her. “How about you? Any family?”
She opened the fridge door and bent over, her hand holding on to the handle as she started grabbing contents with her free hand. “Yeah, I have two bro—” Her movements paused and her voice faltered before she gave her head a subtle shake. “One brother.”
I still couldn’t believe the rumors that had been circling the underworld for years about an illegitimate daughter by the old Konstantin were true. There were no signs of her, so I chalked it up to being just that. Rumors. Except now… Could Isla be their sister? She didn’t resemble them at all, yet my instinct warned.
I was rarely wrong. It was how I stayed alive for so long, despite the odds. I was certain now that Isla was Illias’s little sister. It turned out the rumors running around all those years were true after all.
“You close with him? Or them, is it?”
She turned her head, and the sadness in her eyes was like a punch in the gut. Her eyes glazed over and her delicate throat bobbed as she gave me a shaky smile.
“I had a brother who passed away.” Her bottom lip trembled, and it was another confirmation that Isla was Konstantin’s little sister. Me sleeping with his sister wouldn’t go over well. Not that I planned on enlightening him. The man was busy with his woman, Tatiana Nikolaev, for now. “I still have Illias, and I’ve always been closer with him.”
Ah, fuck! There was my confirmation.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured. Maxim was a loose cannon, and it was only a matter of time before he got himself killed. The drugs just about fried his brain. And then he had to go fuck with Sasha Nikolaev. “I know how much it hurts to lose a sibling.”
Her hand reached out and came to rest on mine. The tenderness of her touch softened something inside my chest. Something I desperately wished would stay hard as stone.
“How long ago did you lose your brother?”
“Long time,” I muttered. “But it still hurts. I see us in my sons’ faces. They remind me of us when we were children.”
She smiled, compassion shimmering off of her. “Were you and your brother close in age?”
I nodded. “Just a year and a half apart. Kind of like Enzo and Amadeo.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, squeezing my hand. “You must have been close, growing up like that. Mine were much older than me. They acted more like my parents.”
Another confirmation.I’d taken Isla Konstantin to bed. Shit, this would start a war. But before I could let myself spiral, a thought popped in my head.
Marriage.
It was never something I contemplated, considering every Marchetti’s marriage ended in death, but now it could bring dual benefits. This woman would be tied to me and my bed, and Illias would be my ally.
I studied her pensively, something about all that perfection wrapped up in that petite body made me eager to claim her. Own her. Even break her, only to put her back together.
But underneath it all, my reason warned.Every wife that loves a Marchetti dies.I didn’t want anything to happen to Isla. Her sunshine shone brightly, from the way she took up space in the room, to the way she stood her ground with me. I didn’t want to see it extinguished.
There was a reason not many families were eager to tie themselves to ours. The last bride—Donatella—was mentally unstable. Evil, even. Her family did a good job of hiding it, and it took several years for our family to catch on.
“Okay, let’s get our lunch going,” I offered, switching to a lighter topic.
She handed me an avocado, and for the next ten minutes, we worked in tandem. It was clear Isla had no qualms in the kitchen and was used to taking care of herself.
