The Italian

by T L Swan

  “Oh.” I sip my wine and smile. “Hmm, this is nice.”

  “It is,” he mutters, distracted. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Do you like Italian men?”

  I wince against my glass. “Maybe.”

  “Did you meet someone last time you were in Italy?”

  I giggle at his eagerness for information. “I did, actually.”

  He leans forward. “And?”

  “It was just a weekend thing.”

  “Did you hear from him again?”

  “No and I don’t want to. He’s a total douche.”

  “Really?” His eyes dance with delight. “Why is that?”

  I shake my head. I’m not telling him that story. “He’s just a possessive asshole.”

  He smiles against his glass, clearly delighted. “How wonderful. Don’t you just love it when they’re all possessive?”

  I giggle. “Not really.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever see him again?”

  I raise my brows. “Funny you should say that. I ran into him last night.”

  His eyes widen. “Here. In Milan?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened? Tell me everything.”

  “You seem very interested in my love life. Let’s talk about yours.”

  “Mine’s boring.” He huffs. “I’ve been with the same man for ten years. I much prefer to live vicariously through my friends.”

  I giggle. “Well, I was on a date with someone else, and he saw me. He marched over and caused a scene.”

  He sits back and laughs out loud. “You were on a date with someone else? Oh, this is priceless.”

  “Anyway, that’s all. There’s nothing else to tell.”

  “Well, who knows when you’ll see him again?” He gives me a cheeky wink.

  “Never, I hope.” Just the thought of that bastard makes my blood boil.

  He raises his glass in the air. “Oh, I like you, Olivia. We need a toast.”

  “What are we toasting?” I raise my glass, and smile.

  “To making men jealous.”

  I laugh out loud. Actually, that’s a pretty good toast. “To making men jealous.”

  11

  Olivia

  I smile as I write the text and hit send.

  I’m reporting you to Human Resources for being a bad influence.

  I am wrecked.

  Whose brilliant idea was it to drink four bottles of Prosecco on a Monday night?

  I don’t know what the hell happened last night, but I left work thinking I was going straight home, and then somehow arrived home six hours later, drunk and disorderly. Giorgio is hilarious, and his boyfriend Angelo ended up coming and meeting us for dinner. He’s lovely, too.

  I had fun last night—the most fun I’ve had since I’ve been here—but there is one small problem.

  For the life of me, I can’t stop thinking about Rici Ferrara.

  It’s eating at me. The whole damn thing is eating at me. He is the world’s biggest asshole.

  After the way he treated me in the police station, he has the nerve to judge me for going on a Tinder date. I mean, who the actual fuck does this guy think he is? Who died and made him God? The more I think about it, the angrier I get. At first, I was in shock, but now I just can’t believe it.

  He marches over to my table, drags me outside, and then calls me a whore.

  What the actual fuck was I thinking by standing there and taking it? Why didn’t I punch him in the face or something much more satisfying?

  I keep hearing my pathetic little whiny voice. Go away, I said.

  Damn it, I should have marched over and kicked him as hard as I could in his bastard shin. Nobody is that good looking that they can get away with treating people the way he has treated me.

  Nobody.

  My phone beeps with a text.

  Please do notify HR.

  Hopefully they will put me out of my misery.

  Sick. As. Hell.

  G

  I giggle. Good. I’m glad he’s sick, too.

  I sip my tea as I type two words into Google.

  Enrico Ferrara

  That guy said he was a crime boss.

  I was so rattled the other night that I left that major detail out of my thought process. What did Franco’s cousin mean by that exactly? Could it be true, could Enrico really be a crime boss? The whole notion seems ridiculous. He’s a policeman, and I know he really is because I saw him at the station myself.

  But then I think back to how wealthy his family are.

  The search results pop up and I read on.

  Enrico Giuliano Ferrara

  CEO FERRARA HOLDINGS.

  Enrico Ferrara is an Italian businessman, aged thirty-four. He took over as the CEO of Ferrara Holdings upon the death of this father Giuliano and grandfather Stefano Ferrara who died in a tragic motor vehicle accident in Rome.

  Known for his handsome good looks, sharp intellect, and Playboy lifestyle, he has become one of the most powerful men in Europe, with company assets currently valued at seventeen billion euro.

  What the fuck?

  His father died in a car accident? When?

  I skim the information, until I get to a line that stands out.

  For generations, the Ferrara family has been known to have deep roots within the Mafiosi, though no criminal charges have ever been laid and no witnesses have ever come forward. The Ferrara family is somewhat an enigma and has been a constant source of innuendo and gossip for centuries. Nothing, however, has ever been proven. They are perhaps just shrewd businessmen, and along with their success have come false accusations.

  I slump back into my chair. What?

  I Google again.

  What is Mafiosi?

  Noun, Plural noun. Mafiosi

  A member of the Mafia or similar organized

  crime organization.

  My eyes widen. The Mafia! He’s in the fucking Mafia?

  I slam my computer shut. That’s ridiculous.

  This isn’t a crime novel, Olivia, you idiot.

  I drum my fingers on the table for a moment. I pick up my tea and take a sip with a shaky hand. I get a vision of Rico holding a gun up while someone kneels and begs for his mercy. I see horses’ heads in beds, murders, drugs, killing, death and...

  I just can’t imagine the Rici Ferrara I know being involved in any of this.

  But I really don’t know him at all. I never did. He already proved that to me.

  Oh shit, I really need to know more. I open my computer again and type in:

  What is the Italian Mafia in the twentieth century?

  I lean forward as I read on.

  The Mafia is a group of men with an allegiance to one family. In Italy, there were four Mafiosi families dating back hundreds of years, although all territory has now been claimed by the Ferrara Family. They have tentacles into labor unions, and many legitimate businesses, including construction, sports car manufacturing, football stadiums, restaurants, nightclubs and strong ties in the Milan garment industry. They have raked in enormous profits through kickbacks and protection shakedowns.

  I sit and stare at my computer screen, too shocked to react. I read that line again.

  Although all territory has now been claimed by the Ferrara family.

  Holy shit, maybe it really is true?

  I slam my computer shut in disgust.

  Rici Ferrara isn’t just an asshole now. He’s a bad asshole—one with criminals who pledge allegiance to him.

  That’s it, I’m forgetting I ever met him. Unlike the five hundred times I’ve tried to forget him before, this time I really am.

  I get up and begin to look for my gym clothes. I just wish I had the chance to tell him what I think of him.

  Two hours later, I walk toward the gym with a sense of dread hanging over me. I don’t know why, but every time I walk into a new gym it’s like the first time I’ve ever been in one.

  This one took a lit
tle while to find. It’s not the cheapest membership or anything but it’s over some shops near my work. I thought this would be good because when I move into my apartment, I’ll always be in this area each day because of my job.

  I walk through the red door on the ground floor and I take the stairs. I get to the top and walk in through the big glass double doors, and I look around. Wow, I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s airy and bright with big glass windows down one side. It has six rows of cardio machines and a large boxing ring. To the left are all the weight machines. Huge plasma screens hang everywhere with music videos playing.

  I smile. This place is pretty cool, actually. I walk to the reception where a girl is tidying up some things on the floor on her knees.

  “Hello.”

  She looks up, surprised to see me. “Hi. Sorry, I didn’t see you.” She’s English and has a wonderful Geordie accent. She has dark hair and olive skin. I assumed she was Italian.

  “That’s okay.” I smile. “I imagine not many people come to the gym at 2:00 p.m. on a Sunday.”

  “Right.” She laughs as she climbs to her feet. “I’m Anna.” She holds her hand out to shake mine.

  “I’m Olivia. Nice to meet you.”

  “You want to look around?” She gestures over to the cardio machines.

  “Yes, please. I’ve just moved here.”

  “You’re a kiwi?”

  “No, Australian.”

  “Ahh, how are you finding it?” She smiles. “Milan, I mean.”

  “Good.” I shrug. “I find the language barrier a little harder than I thought it would.”

  “Yeah, I found it really hard to settle in at first. Took me a good six months to feel at home. I moved here three years ago. My fiancé is Italian. We met on a Contiki tour in Germany.”

  “Oh.” I smile. “That’s lovely.”

  “Not really. He’s an ass.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m off him today. He crawled in at four this morning. He’s lucky he didn’t wake up with a plastic bag over his head. Stupid twat.”

  I giggle. I like this girl.

  “You’ll like this gym, it’s very multicultural. It’s owned by an English couple. It seems to have a lot of foreign members as well as Italian. It’s not intentional, I think it’s just the central location.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “The first session is a free trial. Do you want to work out today, and then I can show you the rates and memberships at the end?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She gestures to the treadmill, and I hop on. She hits the buttons and it starts up.

  “Not too fast,” I warn her. “I’m likely to die of a heart attack, I’m so unfit.”

  “At least you don’t work here.” She huffs. “I have no bloody excuse.”

  A head pops around my office door. “Olivia, would you have time to go and pick something up for me?” Tara from the design team asks. “You can take my company car. It’s just on the other side of town. I’m just really swamped, and we need this sample for a meeting at four.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I spin in my chair toward her. “What do you need?”

  “There’s a commercial dry cleaner who is trialing a dry clean on a new fabric we are thinking of using next season.”

  “Okay. So, it’s just a piece of fabric that I’m picking up?”

  “No, we’ve made a very basic dress. We just want to see how it washes and wears. I’ll text you the address.”

  “Great.”

  She passes me her car keys. “You have a license here, right?”

  I take them from her. “I have an international license. How I will drive with it is another story.”

  She laughs. “Just don’t crash, and no rush. As long as I have it by four.”

  “I’m going on lunch soon, anyway, so I’ll get it while I’m out.”

  My phone beeps with the address. “Addio.”

  “Addio.” I open the text and read the address. Hmm, it seems familiar. I stare at the address in front of me. Where have I seen that before?

  Tower 1, 365 Amaro Ave: Level Four

  Centro Direzionale di Milano

  I shrug. Who knows? I grab my bag and walk out through reception. I’ll have lunch on that side of town—something different. My phone rings and the name Natalie lights up my screen.

  “Hello.” I smile as I take the lift down to the underground parking lot.

  “Oh my God. Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you.”

  “Ah!” she squeals. “I did it.”

  “You did what?” I walk through the elevator doors and look around. It’s creepy down here. Dark. I look for the designated parking lot and finally locate it on the other side. Of course, it is.

  “I’m coming to Milan.”

  I freeze on the spot. “What?”

  “I resigned from my job. I got a six-month working visa.”

  My eyes widen. “Are you serious?” We have talked about her coming for months but she couldn’t get her act together.

  “Yes! But don’t worry, I’ll get my own apartment.”

  I close my eyes and laugh out loud. Nat and I tried to live together once before, and it didn’t go well. I couldn’t stand her one-night stands and not knowing who was coming to breakfast, and she couldn’t stand my complaining about it. “Thank God. When do you get here?”

  “I haven’t booked a flight yet. My visa application only just came through an hour ago.”

  “And you resigned already?” I gasp.

  “Fuck, yeah. I’m getting the hell out of here.”

  I laugh again. “I’m so excited.”

  “Me, too!” she screeches. “Okay, I gotta go. I have a million things to organize. I’ll call you later.”

  “Bye.”

  The phone cuts off, and I grin as I arrive at the car. The lights flash twice when I unlock it.

  This is awesome. We’re going to have so much fun.

  An hour later I park the car, turn the air conditioning up high, and I lean my head down on the steering wheel. Holy shit. How didn’t I just die?

  Thank God I’m here.

  Lost, confused, and driving on the wrong side of the road do not make for easy driving. I’m hot and flustered. Hell, I need a stiff drink. I sit for a moment and try to calm myself down. Damn that Italian Stallion for giving me such a short wick this week. I feel like every little thing pushes me close to the edge of losing my cool when it’s him I’m really mad at. If only I could tell him so. I’m sure I would feel so much better.

  I push the exact building address into Google maps on my phone. I’m parked a few blocks away. I think the dry cleaners must be in a mall or something because this is as close as the maps app would let me get. I make my way down the street and find that I’m in the central business district. It’s not trendy and hip like where my workplace is. Skyscrapers are dotted everywhere, and the streets are bustling with people in suits and business attire. It’s very city chic without the glamour of my office’s neighborhood.

  I stare at the address on my phone. It should be just down here. I peer down at a huge quadrangle paved area and see a black glass building. Its super modern, and I glance up, and then I stop dead in my tracks at the huge gold letters above the door.

  FERRARA

  A man bumps into me from behind and mumbles something in Italian.

  “Sorry,” I call. I quickly take out my phone and Google again.

  What is the Ferrara building?

  I feel sick as I wait for the information.

  The Ferrara Building is located in Milan

  and is the head office for Ferrara Industries.

  Address: 330 Amaro Ave

  Centro Direzionale di Milano

  My eyes widen as I peer up at the glass tower. Holy fucking shit.

  That’s his work building……. are you freaking kidding me? I stare at the skyscraper, all trendy and perfect, cold and hard.

  Suddenly, I’m furious. Furious that he’s such an asshole. The fac
t that he’s rolling rich is even more infuriating. Entitled bastard.

  You’re just another Tinder whore.

  How dare he?

  I square my shoulders and pull down my shirt. Not today, motherfucker.

  Before I can stop myself, I march into the Ferrara building like a madwoman.

  My step falters as I walk through a metal detector and past three armed guards.

  Jeez, okay. I regain my bravery and walk up to the reception.

  The secretary smiles. “Ciao.”

  “Ciao.” I frown. “Do you speak English?”

  “I do.”

  I steel myself. “I would like to see Enrico Ferrara, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I need to see him.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ferrara only sees pre-booked appointments.”

  “But is he in his office today?”

  “I believe so. You will need to call ahead for a future appointment.”

  “Call him,” I snap rudely. She stares at me. “You call him and tell him that Olivia Reynolds is here to see him.”

  She frowns and exchanges a glance with the other secretary. Then she glances over my shoulder at the security guard who is suddenly behind me, eavesdropping.

  “I’m sorry—” the secretary begins.

  “I’m not leaving until you call him.”

  She raises her brows and then picks up her phone. She waits as it rings.

  “Ciao, c’è una donna qui che vuole essere presentata al Sig. Ferrara, dice che lo conosce, Olivia Reynolds.” Translation: Hello, we have a woman down here who wants to be announced to Mr. Ferrara, she says she knows him. Olivia Reynolds.

  I twist my fingers nervously in front of me. My heart is racing, slamming so hard into my chest that I’m nearly breathless.

  “Si, va bene.” Translation: Yes, okay.

  “Miss Reynolds, can you turn and face the security camera, please?” She gestures to a camera at the side of us, mounted on the wall.