The Italian

by T L Swan

  His eyes drop to the floor, and I see the muscles flex in his jaw. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because you look like shit,” I fire back. This hard to get act is wearing thin. “And why didn’t you return my calls?”

  “Because….” He stands, suddenly angered. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

  What?

  My face falls and my eyes fill with tears, I blink to try and hide them. That was the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth.

  Without another word, he rushes from the room, and the door slams hard shut behind him. I hear the lock click as he locks me in.

  What the hell was that?

  I can’t hold it anymore. I can’t act brave for one minute longer. I screw up my face and cry.

  Seven hours later

  I lie on the cold, hard bed of the jail cell.

  It’s dark and eerie in here, and I’m scared.

  I keep thinking back to all the international drug trafficking cases over the years and how I haven’t really paid much attention to them or followed up on what the outcome has been. Drug traffickers in other countries get forgotten. Nobody even questions if they are guilty. It’s just assumed that they are.

  It’s ironic really. I’m one of the people who forgot them. Will they forget me?

  The door opens and the light flicks on. A policeman escorts a man in a suit into the room.

  “Hello.” He smiles. He’s older, handsome, and from the look of his suit, loaded.

  I scramble to my feet and pull my shirt down. I feel so exposed and vulnerable in here.

  “My name is Mario Botecci. I am a solicitor, and I represent Ferrara Industries.”

  He shakes my hand.

  “Hi.” I force a smile as I try not to get my hopes up.

  “I have secured your release.”

  My eyes flick between him and the officer. “Really?”

  “Yes, but there are conditions. I will be escorting you to the airport, and you will leave Italy immediately.”

  “Oh.” I frown. “I-I missed my flight,” I stammer.

  “You’ll be flying on the Ferrara jet. I will be accompanying you back to Australia.”

  “That’s not necessary.” I don’t want to go on Enrico’s father’s fucking plane. That’s the last place I want to be. “I’ll book a commercial flight. I don’t want to put anyone out.”

  Mario’s eyes hold mine. “That is the condition of your release. It’s unnegotiable.”

  I stare at him as the lump in my throat begins to close over. Enrico would know this, and he has chosen to not be the one who accompanies me home.

  I nod, unable to push any coherent words past my lips.

  The policeman gestures toward the door. “This way. We have some paperwork for you to sign, and then you can go.”

  Relief begins to flood through me, and I force a smile despite my tears. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  8

  Enrico

  December, 18 Months Later.

  She arches her back, her body straddled over mine as she rides my cock. My hands hold her hips, guiding her to where I want her.

  In, out, deep… so deep.

  My legs are spread, and our bodies are covered in perspiration as we writhe together. Her long, dark hair falls down her back as she watches me with her big brown eyes in the diluted light.

  Sex.

  My necessary evil.

  At least three times a week I have it. Sometimes with one girl, or two from one of my brothels. Other times, I go traditional and meet a woman. Tonight, it’s with one of my general managers, Sophia. She’s beautiful—everything a man could need. We fuck often but she leaves me still hungry and unsatisfied.

  They all do.

  We’ve been at it for an hour and I’m nowhere near close to coming.

  I hate this. I hate that I have this need to fuck, yet can’t come when it’s happening. It’s the worst kind of torture.

  Sophia moans, half in pain, I know I have to let her go. I’ll have to finish myself off.

  Fuck this.

  I close my eyes and go to my kink—the only thing that can get the job done.

  Olivia.

  I imagine it’s her on top, riding me. I envision her blonde hair and those big blue eyes. I feel myself relax as I imagine her looking down at me.

  Soft and lush.

  “Clench,” I command.

  She tightens and I smile. There she is. My tight girl Olivia.

  I lose control, and in one motion, I flip her onto her back and lift her legs over my shoulders. I let her have it.

  Deep, hard pumps.

  I give it both barrels. The bed is smashing against the wall as I take what I need from her body—what I’ve been trying to achieve for an hour.

  I hiss as I tip my head back and come in a rush. My cock jerks so hard that it’s almost painful.

  I open my eyes and look straight down into brown ones. My heart drops.

  It isn’t her.

  I pull out and fall onto my back beside Sophia, gasping for breath.

  She rolls herself so she’s half on my body, and she kisses me. I scrunch my face up and pull my lips away. I don’t want to kiss.

  “Wow.” She smiles as she struggles for air. “You’re incredible.”

  I close my eyes, my heart still racing. Disappointment floods me about the only way I can get over the line…. every single time.

  This fascination with Olivia needs to fucking stop.

  February, 2 months later.

  I watch as a boat slowly pulls into port and the passengers get off. The sea breeze whips through my hair.

  We are sitting in a bar having a late and lazy lunch in Venice. Our guards are strategically out of sight, up against the walls. Andrea laughs at something on his phone before he shows me a meme as he scrolls through Instagram. I smile.

  We’ve been here for a week. Drea had a break from work and wanted a short getaway. We’ve laid in the sun, eaten, drank, and laid low. While he’s so relaxed that he’s nearly asleep… I’m not. I’m not sure I even know how to relax anymore.

  It’s been such a long time.

  “Can I get you anything?” the waitress asks as she smiles down at Andrea.

  I smirk as I watch her. She’s been circling him for hours, and knowing him like I do, she will be beneath him in his bed tonight.

  “Yes,” he replies. “Two more Aperol Spritz, please.” He gives her a cheeky wink.

  “Yes, sir.” She smiles.

  I look through the crowd and see a woman in a red dress with blonde hair. I sit up suddenly.

  Is that her?

  “What?” Drea asks as his eyes follow my line of sight. “What are you looking at?”

  “That woman in the red dress over there.”

  We both watch, and then she turns. I exhale heavily and slump back into my chair.

  It’s not her.

  Andrea looks over at me and frowns. “Are you still thinking about her?”

  I pick up my drink and sip it. I crunch on a piece of ice as my eyes go to him.

  “How long has it been?” He frowns.

  “Since what?”

  “Since you’ve seen her.”

  I shrug. “A long time.”

  “You still picturing her to come?”

  I drain my glass, unwilling to answer his question. I don’t know why I told him that. Momentary drunken insanity.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  I shrug. Fuck knows. Least of all me.

  “You can have any woman in the world you want. Every beautiful Italian woman on the planet is madly in love with you, yet you choose to pine over an Australian who lives on the other side of the world.” I exhale heavily. “She’s probably happily married to someone else by now, Rico.”

  “She’s not.”

  His eyes widen. “You’ve been watching her?”

  I pick up my second drink and sip it as I stare out over the sea. “Maybe.”


  “And?”

  I crunch on my ice. “She’s still single.”

  “So, bring her here.”

  “And offer her what, Drea?” I sit back in my chair, dejected. “We both know...” I pause as I try to articulate my thoughts. “I can’t. It’s not like she lives here. If I bring her here, I have to have an offer.” I sigh sadly. “No woman in their right mind is moving to the other side of the world for a mob boss. Not a woman like her, anyway.”

  He watches me for a moment. “What if she was working here and you accidently ran into her?”

  “But she’s not.”

  He smirks. “You’re Enrico Ferrara, aren’t you?”

  My eyes hold his.

  “I’m pretty sure you have most of Italy on your payroll, brother.”

  I stare at him.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Something to think about, right?”

  “Hmm.” I smirk as his plan begins to play out in my head. I sit back and sip my drink. My mind begins to run at a million miles per minute.

  What if I brought her here and ‘accidentally’ ran into her?

  For half an hour, I go through the possibilities in my mind.

  “I’m going to the bathroom,” Drea says.

  “Yeah, sure,” I reply, distracted as I begin to scroll through the names in my phone. I get to the one I’m looking for: Giorgio work. I dial the number.

  “Hello, House of Valentino,” he answers.

  “Giorgio,” I say. “It’s Enrico Ferrara.”

  “Ah, Rico. Long time no speak, my friend. How can I help you?”

  I smile. “I… need a favor.”

  9

  Olivia

  April, two months later

  I close my eyes as I stare at the email in my inbox. “Please let this happen.”

  This is it; the moment I’ve been waiting for. Three months, seven interviews, an hour-long conference call last week, and it all comes down to this.

  One email. I either got the job or I didn’t.

  All my hopes and dreams rest on this.

  I’m either moving to New York to take up a position in the designing team for Valentino. Or I’m not.

  And damn it, I really, really want to.

  It seemed crazy when I applied for the position on the other side of the world, but now I’ve gotten used to the idea of moving, I’m excited about it. More excited than I’ve been about anything for a long time. I’ve been looking at rental apartments over there, and I have worked out the area I want to live in.

  Now, it just has to happen.

  I’m still designing pyjamas. It’s still a great job with a great company, but my life in Sydney is still batshit boring. I’ve bought an apartment and pottered along for a while, even been on a few dates, but I’m itching. I don’t know how I find out what makes me happy but I do know that designing pyjamas and living alone isn’t it.

  My finger hovers over the email. Okay, just do this. I inhale deeply and hit open.

  My eyes skim the letter until I get to the line I’m dreading.

  Unfortunately, you have been unsuccessful in your application.

  I slump back into my chair.

  What?

  For fuck’s sake. I drag my hands down my face and go back to read it from the beginning.

  Dear Olivia

  Thank you for your recent application with Valentino.

  Your experience and creativity are very impressive, and you were shortlisted for the position of junior designer in the New York division. However, the applicant you were up against had extensive experience and came from a similar established role. It is because of this that we feel that he is better suited to this particular position. We regret to inform you that you have been unsuccessful in your application.

  I sit back, dejected and, quite frankly, pissed off.

  Great. I read on.

  However, we have found something else that we feel you would be perfect for.

  The position is to be a fabric consultant to the designers, and it is based in Milan.

  Your key role will be to source and negotiate the production of the desired fabrics for our upcoming ranges. You will be required to relocate to Milan in Italy, and extensive travel will be required to fulfill your role.

  My eyes bulge. What the hell?

  If this sounds like something you would be interested in, please contact me and we can discuss the specifics further. The position is available from the 28th May. Valentino will cover moving costs, and your first six weeks of accommodation will be supplied until you get settled in Italy.

  I look forward to speaking with you with regards to this role, and I hope that we can welcome you into the Valentino family.

  Have a nice day.

  Giorgio Bianci

  Valentino, Milan.

  “Oh my God.” I bite my bottom lip as a goofy smile crosses my face. Picking the fabrics for upcoming ranges? It’s a dream come true.

  Holy shit.

  I get a vision of myself being all professional and traveling the world looking for fabric. It could be the opportunity of a lifetime. My mind goes to the last time I was in Italy, and that stupid bastard the Italian Stallion, Rici Ferrara. It’s been a while since I thought about him and his fuckable package.

  Asshole.

  I can’t think of him without getting angry.

  Rome is six hours away from where I’m going. If I don’t go to Rome, I can’t see him. Problem solved.

  Excitement begins to sink into my bones.

  Italy.

  Not quite New York. It’s the other end of the spectrum, sure, but it is away from here. It’s exotic and new, and not to mention the position is amazing. It’s a no-brainer really. I’m stupid if I don’t do this. I roll my fingers on my desk as I go over my options.

  Fuck it. I’m going.

  May, one month later.

  “Ciao.” I smile at the concierge over the counter.

  I’m in the hotel where I’m staying for the next couple of weeks in Milan—The Chateau Monfort. I’m trying desperately to contain my over-the-top excitement. This place is already fabulous; I can just tell. The foyer has huge limestone arches and a marble concierge desk. The floor is an exotic tile. Don’t even start me on the artwork in here. Let’s just say, I can tell that I’m in Milan.

  Over the last month I’ve been listening to my Italian tapes like a woman possessed. I really want to learn the language while I’m here and I am going to try to converse as much as I can in Italian.

  “Vorrei fare il check-in, per favore. Mi chiamo Olivia Reynolds.” I smile proudly. Yes, that’s right. I speak Italian because I live in Milan and shit. I bite the side of my cheek to stop myself gushing about how cool I have suddenly become.

  The man on the counter speaks. “Certo, signora! Ha prenotato online?”

  Oh. Jeez, he said that fast. “Ah, può ripetere per favore?”

  “Abbiamo aggiornato la sua prenotazione e abbiamo incluso un pachetto colazione,” he says way too fast.

  My coolness was premature. “Do you speak English?” I ask.

  “Yes, Madame.” He smiles, knowing full well he just knocked me down from my pedestal. “We have you booked in for a period of six weeks.”

  “Yes.”

  He types something, and then reads the notes. “Oh, you are here for Valentino?”

  “Yes.”

  He continues to type. “What do you do for them?”

  “I’m a textiles consultant.” I beam. That sounds so cool.

  “Impressive. You are in room two-three-two on level two.” He slides my key over the counter. “We have upgraded you to also have a breakfast package. It’s served daily in the restaurant on level two from 6:00 a.m. You have full access to the swimming pool on level three with a gymnasium and a day spa. Concierge is twenty-four hours, and we will arrange all of your transfers for you if you call ahead. There is around-the-clock room service available with an extensive menu.”

  I grin brightly. “That all sou
nds great. Can I please have a kettle, coffee, and tea supplies brought to my room?”

  “Of course, I’ll order that now.” He types something into his computer. “Your luggage will be up shortly, and if there is anything you need, please dial nine.”

  “Okay.”

  “Enjoy your stay in Milan, Miss Reynolds.”

  I bounce my shoulders. “Thanks.” I make my way up to level two and down the wide corridor until I get to my room. I walk in and my breath catches.

  The room is huge, full of antique furnishings, chandeliers, and gorgeous artwork. Sheer white drapes cover the windows, and the view over the city is spectacular. There’s a circular table made from dark wood, and matching chairs with upholstered cream velvet cushions. There’s also a large couch in the same velvet, and the carpet is thick and lush. Holy shit, the bed. It’s round, king size, and has a white netting canopy over it.

  What the heck? A king size round bed? Now I’ve officially seen it all. I look around in awe. This place is fucking amazing. It’s like a fairy tale.

  There’s a knock on the door and I rush to open it. “Your kettle, coffee, and tea supplies.” The porter smiles.

  “Yes, please, come in.” I open the door and watch on as he sets them up in the little kitchen area. “Will that be all?”

  There’s another knock on the door.

  “Yes, thank you,” I say as I open the door. Another porter has arrived with my luggage.

  “Your luggage.”

  “Yes, just put it here.”

  He wheels my suitcase in, and I tip them both. “Thank you.” They leave me alone.

  I look around my room with a broad smile on my face. I quickly text my mum.

  Arrived safely.

  Call you tomorrow.

  Love you

  xoxo

  I’m going to make a cup of tea, put away my clothes, and then go to sleep.