Page 74 of Thorns of Death
“Don’t you fu—” I cut myself off, unsure of what age it was appropriate to start using bad words in front of kids. I mentally slapped myself. Duh, never. “Don’t you dare leave me in here. I swear to God—”
He didn’t let me finish. He shoved me in, slapped his hand over the outside remote screen, and closed the door behind me. And damn if it didn’t close as fast as lightning.
I stood, immobile, my eyes darting between the two boys and then back to the TV that seemed to be playing… an Italian soap opera.Typical Italians. I wouldn’t have thought teenage boys would be interested. Although, in their defense, their attention was glued to the devices in their hands.
Neither one of them seemed concerned with the fact that I was standing here. As if it were a normal, everyday occurrence.
Maybe it was.
I studied them. They looked alike, although not twins. One of them looked older. They were the spitting image of their father.
“Ummm, how long have you been in here?” I finally asked.
The boys didn’t even look up from their phones. “Twenty minutes or so. Maybe an hour.”
Okay, at least they could speak English. Although their sense of time seemed to be off.
“Do you… do you often have to sit in this room?”
My voice came out sharp. Concerned, even. Like, what the fuck would I do if they did? Go and kill their father? It didn’t sound like a bad idea, but I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to add another murder to my list. I was already an accomplice to one, but that was different. What kind of friend would I be if I’d left Reina hanging when she needed my help?
One of the boys—the younger one, if I had to guess—shrugged, while the other didn’t even bother to acknowledge me.
“When something bad is happening,” younger Enrico Jr. answered in perfect English.
“Or when Mother’s trying to kill us,” the other one—older Enrico Junior—added.
I froze.
Did he say—
No, I must have misunderstood it. It had to be his accent. “Can you repeat that? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”
Two sets of dark eyes lifted off their phones and met mine. “Our mother tries to kill us once in a while,” the older one said slowly, like he was speaking to an idiot.
“She’s sick,” the other said. He brought his hand to his temple and tapped it with his index finger. “Pazza.” When I gave him a blank stare, he added, “Crazy. She’s crazy.” What in the actual fuck? Their mother was trying to kill them? Then I realized he said “is,” not “was,” as if their mother were alive. It wasn’t a language barrier—his English was perfect—and I took it as another confirmation that Enrico’s wife was alive. Donatella Marchetti had been the shadow stalking me from the moment I had that incredible night with Enrico. “Are you an American?” he asked, curiosity in his dark gaze.
I stared at him. How could a kid so calmly go from “mother’s trying to kill us” to “are you an American”? I was still reeling from the revelations about my own mother and could barely move past it.
“Yes, I’m an American,” I murmured as their attention turned back to their phones.
Lowering myself to the floor, I pulled my knees up to my chest while trying to think of what to say. His casual tone had hit me right in the chest.
“I’m so sorry your mom tried to hurt you,” I murmured, feeling this pain for them deep in my chest even though they seemed unaffected by it. Maybe my sorrow for them was ridiculous—I didn’t even know them well—but no kid should feel unwanted by their mother. “Sometimes people just suck.”
Their bodies froze as if they were unaccustomed to condolences and compassion. Something told me, though, that their father took care of things in this department. He might have been brutish and manipulative, but I sensed that he would be a good dad. A caring dad. After all, not too many men built safe rooms to protect their children. And for some reason, that warmed me to these boys.
“Do your parents suck?” the younger one asked.
“I never met them,” I said, the wound still fresh in my chest. “But before we give each other our life stories, I need to know your names.” I laughed softly. I couldn’t keep referring to them as younger and older Enrico Jr. “I’m Isla Evans.”
They shared a glance, communicating wordlessly. Just like their father, it was hard to read them.
“I’m Enzo Marchetti.”
“And I’m Amadeo Marchetti.”
I smiled at them. I had a feeling both of these boys would grow up to become dominating men just like their father. It was terrifying. However, I was certain girls would soon be falling all over themselves for them.
