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A certain interest ran over me, and, ignoring Mamma, I asked, “How do you know that?”
My sister’s sparkling gaze came my way. “I asked him last night.”
“You what? Adriana!”
I sat forward in my chair. “And he told you?”
“Well . . . not exactly. I asked him, and he only looked down on me like I was annoying him. But then Gianna, who was overhearing the conversation, told me three times.”
“Do you have a brain in your head? Why would you ask him something like that?”
Neither of us looked in Mamma’s direction. A smile pulled on our lips. We were now playing a popular game to see who could shock Mamma enough she’d storm from the room, berating us in Italian. It usually began with ignoring her a few times.
“Is Gianna his sister?” I asked, though I was 99 percent sure he was an only child. She could have been a cousin, but somehow, I knew she wasn’t.
Adriana laughed. “No. Stepmother.”
My jaw dropped. “She’s younger than him!”
“A year,” Adriana confirmed.
“My God. Can you imagine sleeping with a man more than twice your age?”
“Elena!”
Adriana’s gaze widened. “You think she had sex with his papà?”
“Stop with this talk.”
I pursed my lips. “Well, they were married. They at least had missionary—”
“Basta!” Mamma headed for the door, tossed her apron on the counter, and spewed Italian about her heathen daughters the whole way.
Our laughter filled the kitchen.
“I can’t believe she’s his stepmother,” I said, before adding, “Or, was.”
“I know.” Adriana stuck her finger in the sauce and tasted it, grimacing. “But I don’t think they have a mother-son relationship.”
“No,” I said, “more like the other way around.”
Adriana shook her head. “No, not like that either.”
“
What do you mean?”
“I would bet my entire costume collection they’ve slept together.”
My eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yep,” she said, wiping the island down.
My sister was usually quiet, blending into the background at parties and events, but that only made her skilled at reading people—when she took the time or cared about doing it, anyway. She was probably right. How very . . . blasphemous. Though, I wouldn’t have expected much else from the boss.
I hopped off my chair, headed to the pot on the stove, and tasted a little from the wooden spoon. Bitterness exploded in my mouth. “Wow, that’s, um . . .”
Adriana laughed while struggling to reach a cup on the top shelf. She hopped and growled when she still couldn’t get it. She turned around, giving up, her gaze narrowed.
