19. Tatiana #2
“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?”
I shrugged. “Well, you get so red every time I bring up Enrico Marchetti. I worry your cheeks might remain stained forever.”
“My fucking complexion sucks,” she muttered.
“I think it’s beautiful.” She just rolled her eyes, then took a sip of wine. Both of us gave up on Italian food, but not Italian men. “Now, about Marchetti–”
She reached across the table and grabbed a piece of broccoli. When my eyebrow raised, she just muttered, “It goes good with the wine.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she muttered. “And there’s nothing about Enrico Marchetti to tell.” I studied her, refusing to believe that. I was certain there was plenty to tell. She sighed. “Okay, it was just one night.”
One night. With the hot daddy. Jesus Christ. Illias would blow a gasket. Whatever the business partnership the two had going, it’d go up in smoke.
“Does your brother know?” I asked while a plan started to form in my mind. Nikita was on me like fly on shit while Illias was gone. However, when he was around, he usually stayed away. It might be my chance to get out of here and search out the answers.
Marchetti would have them since it was clear he’d wanted Adrian dead.
Isla snickered. “God, no. My brother still thinks I’m twelve.” Well, that sounded familiar. I got wild in college, dragging Isabella with me into trouble. My first taste of freedom and I flew like a bird. No regrets.
“You don’t think your brother would approve? After all, Marchetti and Illias are friends,“ I remarked dryly.
And partners in crime , I added silently. I needed to know exactly what Adrian’s crime was.
Her eyes flickered to me, watching me strangely. “They don’t know each other.”
She grabbed a piece of carrot and bit into it. The sound of her crunching filled the kitchen. Tension seemed to grow with each crunch, reaching high levels. There was something off and Marchetti was the connection. At least it seemed that way.
“What makes you think they don’t know each other?” I couldn’t force myself to lie to her. It was obvious at Maxim’s funeral that they knew each other. And then there was the phone call. And my memory. Marchetti and Konstantin weren’t just mere acquaintances.
A freaking year! It took a whole goddamn year to get to this point and remember that night.
The therapist knew what he was talking about, after all.
My memories from the accident came back when I was ready to handle them.
Yet, I couldn’t shake off the slight taste of betrayal that Illias had left me in the dark.
He should have fucking told me.
“What makes you think they do?” she asked, studying me curiously. I’d have to be careful with her. She was too observant.
I shrugged. “Bad assumption, I guess,” I answered vaguely and filled her glass back up.
At the other end of the kitchen, Nikita watched us. He couldn’t hear our conversation. I was never fond of bodyguards lurking like dark shadows around me. Well, Nikita seemed to be determined to become exactly that. It drove me fucking nuts.
“Hey, Nikita,” I yelled across the kitchen. “Want a drink?”
His expression remained unmoved, but something flickered in his gaze. Annoyance maybe. He was probably pissed to have to stay back and watch over us women. Isla said he usually traveled everywhere with Illias but this time, her brother insisted he remained behind with us.
He didn’t trust anyone else to keep us safe.
“Don’t taunt him,” Isla whispered, downing her drink. “He’ll get mad.”
I snickered. “I think it might be too late for that.”
“I don’t think he likes watching us,” she muttered.
I shrugged. “Well, he’s free to leave anytime,” I remarked as I refilled Isla’s glass.
“You’re going to get me drunk,” she complained, her speech slightly slower already. She was well on her way. “Then take advantage of me.”
She was funny. How did Isla have such a serious brother? Probably the same way I did. Vasili was all bossy, serious, and no fun. Sasha was special. A bit on the crazy side. And then there was me. A perfect angel.
“You have to drink for both of us.” I put the bottle down, then rubbed my belly. “And I promise my hands will never touch you,” I teased.
She waved her hand, then winked. “You can watch but cannot touch.” She put her hands on her cheeks and her eyes turned hazy. “I cannot think about that right now.” My sister-in-law was funny when tipsy. “I’d have to ravish a man and that would be inappropriate.”
And apparently she was horny.
“Totally inappropriate,” I agreed, then lowered my eyes. “See what happens when you do inappropriate things.”
She giggled. “Get knocked up?” I nodded. “Two babies, huh?”
I grinned. “Two babies. I still can't believe it. I’ve wanted to have children for so long and now, it’s happening.”
“I bet you never thought it’d be with my brother when you met him all those years ago,” she remarked.
I let out a sardonic breath. There were many things I never thought would be with Illias Konstantin.
“Life works in mysterious ways.” I leaned conspiratorially across the table. “And I have a feeling, it’ll work that way with you and Marchetti.”
“Tatiana,” she scolded, but her giggle ruined it.
I groaned. “I’m dying here,” I admitted. “His luxury brand empire fascinates me.” His connection to the criminal world and Adrian’s death even more, but I left those words unsaid.
The cook came back through the kitchen door, muttering and glaring at our half-prepped meal.
“We don’t know how to cook,” I lied. “Come and make us Italian pasta. Gelato. Italian dick? Anything Italian, we’ll take it.”
He whirled around like a prima donna and left the room again with a string of Russian curses behind him. “He just has to curse in Italian, and there’d be nothing convincing me he’s not an Italian deep down.”
Isla giggled. “You’re incorrigible. Illias isn’t the type to like anyone with opinions. He must love you so much.”
Her comment momentarily stilled me. My heart tugged in an unnatural way, followed by a raw wave of warmth that flickered in my chest. It was different from anything I had felt before.
Love me?
Sardonic amusement mixed with a hint of bitterness filled me. I was getting ahead of myself. I loved Adrian, but he had never uttered those three little words to me. I had said the words plenty for both of us. Yet somehow it fed the resentment and bitterness.
Love and marriage were a two way street. At least I thought so. It seemed to be the case with Vasili and Isabella. It wasn’t as if I’d model my marriage to what little I heard of my own parents’ relationship.
So here I was. Married again and clueless on what I should and shouldn’t tolerate from a partner.
Pushing the ridiculous notion of love out of my head, I stood up. The feet of my chair dragged against the tiled floor, breaking the sounds of music with a loud screech.
“We need a better song,” I told her. I switched through the stations, my motion pausing. “No freaking way,” I muttered under my breath.
The very same song by Bruno Mars. “I love that song,” Isla chirped, jumping to her feet.
She shook her ass like Beyonce, or maybe even Shakira, and I shook my head amused. I’d wager all my money that Isla and her friends were wild, keeping their innocent, sweet expressions in front of their families.
“Want me to tap your ass like your girlfriends in the video?” I asked loudly when she bent over, twerking her ass.
For the next four hours, I saw a completely different side of Isla.