Page 42 of Jetmir

Papa lifted a brow. “Both families?”

Mama nodded. “It’s been planned for weeks.”

He let out another sigh, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I suppose the house won’t be quiet for the rest of the day.”

“Not a chance,” Mama said, laughing. “Francesca and Gianna together? We’ll be lucky if the windows survive.”

Even Papa’s mouth twitched at that, though he quickly hid it behind another sip of his coffee.

A faint smile tugged at my lips. I would have preferred a small dinner with just the three of us and my brother and his wife, but I knew Mama wanted to do this, so I let her take the reins.

I stood up from my spot. “I have to go to the gallery, but I’ll be back before everyone arrives.”

After everything that had happened with my husband, I buried myself into work. It was my only consolation and it’d paid off. Now, I had my own gallery and most of my photographs sold within days.

It turned out what they said was true: when one area of your life went astray, another picked up. It was all about balance, I supposed.

“Are you sold out already?” Papa asked.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

I just wished the photographs I took didn’t remind me of my ex-husband. Jetmir would take me to a different exotic spot every morning while we were in Albania. He’d sit and read whatever book I was into at that time, waiting patiently for me to be done. Those were some of the best mornings of my life.

“Don’t you have some work to do?” I teased while he sat in the shade with my Kindle, his expression serious.

“I took care of it all while you were sleeping,” he said. “There’s nothing more important than my woman and her art.”

“Don’t forget the books,” I singsonged.

“Ah, we can’t forget the books.” His eyes darkened, the way they did when we made love. “I think later today we’ll try out this scene in the hot tub.”

A shudder rolled down my spine, and I blew out a breath, already anticipating the moment I would feel him inside me again. “Yes, please.”

“Don’t forget to save me one of South Beach,” Papa said around a mouthful of eggs, startling me out of my memory. I quickly schooled my face while my heart raced in my chest. “I’ll pay you handsomely.”

He wanted that photo because it reminded him of Mama. During a period of their marriage, before I was born, they lived separately and she walked that beach every day. He’d given her space, but he swore up and down that it was that specific beach that’d led her back to him.

“Papa, I told you already. That photo is yours free of charge. I even framed it for you.”

His phone rang, and he threw a glance at it. “Absolutely not. Name the price, my precious daughter.”

He answered his call and I knew the conversation was over.

I found myself reflecting on my memory as I gazed out of the tinted window of my chauffeured Porsche SUV, staring out at the city that my papa owned and protected me within its bubble. It was too easy to hide my pain amongst the nameless faces here. The towering skyscrapers had replaced the jagged spikes around my heart, their mirrored windows reflecting a version of Miami that looked polished, expensive, and untouched by grief.

Pursing my lips, I swept my Chanel sunglasses onto my face as the car pulled up to the curb outside my gallery on the most exclusive street in Miami. It was the kind of morning when the bright sunshine exposed every crack and blemish in the sidewalk. It exposed mine, too.

So far, I had a hangover from hell from a five-million-dollar commission from the sale of one of my pieces. It was a good kind of feeling. I only wished I knew who the purchaser was, but anonymity was a privilege we guaranteed all our customers. Money had a way of making people want to disappear, and I had learned not to ask questions when people were willing to pay enough.

I checked my phone again, staring at the three missed calls from the withheld number. Two more were from Thalia, my manager at the gallery, and one from my brother, Gabriel.

I had ignored all of them, but my brother’s. I dialed him back.

“Hey, Gabriel,” I greeted him. “You called?”

“I wanted to wish you a happy birthday,” he said, and then to my horror proceeded to sing. I listened patiently, cringing at his non-musical voice until the final verse finally hit. “... happy birthday to you. I love you, baby sister.”

I chuckled. “I love you too, but please, for the love of God, don’t sing again.”