Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Copyright © 2021 Leah Sharelle
Dramatic, mushy, complicated, Love.
By Leah Sharelle
All Rights Reserved.
Editing and Proofreading: R Corcoran
Photography: Chic Professional Photography
Cover Models: Mel and Eric Morris.
Cover Design: Formatting & Design by Jaye
Interior Design: Formatting & Design by Jaye
This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the properties of the author, and your support and respect are appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This author writes using Australian English and may include Australian diction
FROM LEAH
I have a real flair for the dramatics, I am definitely overly mushy, and I have been informed by a very good friend, I am a mite complicated. I apologise for none of this, instead, I wrote a book about it.
DEDICATION
Steve, thank you for the title. xoxo
I could feel the alcohol coursing through my bloodstream, numbing the pain of the tattoo gun as the biker looking dude scratched and pricked the skin on my arm, permanently marking me with ink.
For years I had been waiting to get out from under my parents’ rules and finally have a life. I was making my own choices, hanging out with my mates until dawn, picking up chicks and not having to worry about being responsible. Going to uni and living away from my childhood home was the shit.
“You sure you want me to keep going, mate? We have half of the design done and dusted; looks good the way it is if you wanna book another session in a week or so,” the tattoo guy asked me for the third time since I’d started the sitting to get the tribal tat I chose. We were into our fifth hour and my ninth beer, and I was feeling no pain.
“Nah, keep going mate. I don’t want to walk around with half a sleeve,” I insisted, lifting the bottle of lager and tipping it at him. “This is helping me.”
“Ya know, you are only drinking that beer because you are my cousin’s mate and I have closed up for the day. Normally, I don’t allow drinking piss while getting a tat.”
Closing my eyes, I grunted in affirmation, not a care in the world. The tattoo guy might scare my mates, but seeing as though I had about thirty kilos of muscle and ten inches on him, his gruff voice and thinly veiled threat didn’t bother me.
“Appreciate it, bud.”
Sighing contently, I relaxed my head against the headrest of the chair and smiled to myself, fucking ecstatic that I was finally here. Not the chair in a tattoo parlour getting a sleeve done, but one hundred and thirty-seven kilometres away from my home town.
A niggle of guilt reared its head, thinking that way, but I quickly squashed it. All my life up to this point, I did everything to please my parents. Now, don’t get me wrong, I loved my family. Mum, Dad, my four sisters, and the ridiculous amount of extended family. When my parents came to Australia, some of their siblings immigrated as well. While we weren’t incredibly close due to the fallout between my grandparents and my parents, we did see each other from time to time.
It also made for a lot of competitiveness between cousins when I was a kid. We attended the same primary school, and it didn’t matter what, whether it be sports, education, after-school jobs … everything was a race to be the best, and my parents always demanded I win.
Pleasing them with the best grades in high school, I got the best paying part-time job, and I excelled in every sport I went out for, just as was expected of me. Hell, I even applied and received a position in the best Civil Engineering course at the best university in the country, so I could follow in my father’s footsteps and take over the family business one day.
I did that, got my degree, had savings and the trophies were in my childhood room for everyone to admire. Job well done son, as my father would say, but now I was doing something for myself and no one was going to stop me.
University was the key to my future, but there was no rule against finally having some fun along the way. With no pressure from home.
“Dude, your phone is buzzing,” tattoo guy grunted at me.
Opening one eye, I looked over at my phone and saw my sister’s name flashing on the screen.
“Fuck me! First Phoebe, then Sandy and Holly, and now the family pain in the arse,” I grumbled, glaring at the device with disdain. If I don’t answer it, she will keep ringing. Kayla, the oldest of the girls and the most demanding. Kayla couldn’t do anything without needing help … mostly from me. I loved all of my sisters, but being away from the constant nagging, demanding and female overload, was one of the things I enjoyed the most.
Picking up my phone, I swiped the screen and grumbled a hello.
“Kayla, this isn’t a good time. I told you yesterday I will be home next Saturday—” abruptly I stopped when the sounds of soft sobbing met my ears.
“Kayla, what’s wrong?” I blurted out, sitting up straight, the jerky move causing the needle to dig hard into my skin inadvertently. My sister may be a pain in the arse, but she wasn’t a crier. Gripping the phone tight, I listened through the sobbing and heard the words that shattered my heart.
“Luca? You have to come home, Dad had a heart attack … he didn’t make it.”
10 years later
There was a burn in my shoulders that just wouldn’t quit. Of course, it didn’t help that for the last seven hours, all I had done was sit at my desk to go over contracts, participate in zoom meetings, and calculate quotes for the five jobs the company was bidding for this month.
This was my least favourite part of being the head of the family business. Wearing a suit and tie and sitting in front of a computer sucked arse, being out on-site was where my skill set laid. Unfortunately, my business partner and best mate, Ace, won the toss of the coin and hightailed it out of the office early this morning, leaving me to sweat it out here instead of outside in the sun and fresh air. Tearing shit down was Ace’s speciality, where mine was more in the building and technical side, but I did enjoy getting my hands dirty with the explosives when time allowed. We both, however, hate office work and schmoozing with clients, and neither of us has much tolerance for idiots.
“Next time I’ll toss the coin, this is the third time in a row that prick has won,” I grumbled to no one but myself, “and use my own coin.” It wouldn’t surprise me if Ace used a prank coin to get out of the bookwork. The bloke had a tendency to make sure his life was made easy and got nothing but joy out of seeing me miserable. Slowly rolling my shoulders to work out the kinks,
I pushed back in my chair, dropping my head over the back.
“Kayla! No more calls, okay?” I shouted out gruffly towards the outer office where my sister worked as my assistant. At twenty-six, and the second oldest behind me by three years, Kayla was the of Donatella Engineering and Demolition office manager. She ran the office with an iron fist—as well as me. She lived by agendas, lists and schedules, if it didn’t go through her first, then it didn’t come to me. There was no one more organised than the oldest Donatella sister, no one.
Hearing the clicking of her heels on the hardwood floor, I braced for the inevitable lecture and rundown of what the workload was going to be for the following day. Kayla was nothing if not predictable.
“Luca, must you shout? We have an intercom system for a reason, shouting is so uncouth, and that is not the impression we want to project to our clients.” My sister’s predicted response came just as I knew it would.
“Kayla, there are no fucking clients out there, just you.” My crass reply getting the desired effect from my prim and proper sister. My entire family lived by the philosophy the outward appearance was more important than who you really were. The first impression had to be perfect, whether it be a potential client, a neighbour or a member of the church. A Donatella should always ooze class and sophistication my French-born mother and Italian father had said on a daily basis.
And for the last ten years, I have lived by that rule as best as I could.
But there were times when I craved to revert back to that nineteen year old that got a taste of freedom for six precious months—getting pissed every second night, hanging with Ace and the other guys in the five-bedroom house we shared. Laundry day was once a week, the fridge always full of Vic Bitter and the freezer packed with frozen pizza and chocolate mint chip ice-cream. The staples of teens on the cusp of manhood.
My father’s death ended that rite of passage, sending me back to attend university closer to my family instead of with my mates. Ace transferred back with me, and together we forged out a plan. Both of us getting degrees in engineering and explosives, working hard to finish school early so I could take control of my dad’s widely successful business and continue his legacy. For my mother, there was nothing more important than having her son take the place of her lost husband, and I took that seriously. However, there were times when I wished for the heavy responsibility that had been thrust on me at such a young age to be replaced with a weekend of booze and partying.
Just a small reprieve.
Glancing at the small desk clock, I decided to say fuck it and wave adios to the computer and bookwork. There was nothing important that couldn’t wait for the morning, but a cold beer at the pub with Ace and the boys couldn’t.
***
“Luca, I don’t know why you insist on living at that house when there is so much room in your family home,” my mother complained as I rummaged through the fridge for something quick to eat. My mind was only half focused on the stock standard complaint, instead opting to think about the night ahead. Calling Ace from the car when I left the office, I informed him of the plan to meet up at the usual watering hole for a game or three of pool and copious amounts of cold frothy nectar of the gods—telling Ace to get the crew organised and to meet me at The Western at six.
“Mum, I don’t want to go over the same topic again tonight. We do it every damn day I come over, and the answer is always the same.” Grabbing a plate with a thick slice of leftover lasagne, I headed over, pulled a fork out of the draining rack, and started shovelling my favourite thing to eat into my mouth, the whole time looking at my mother.
Her French heritage showed in her fine classical features, well-kept and styled hair and impeccable dress sense. Even for a day pottering around the house, she wore heels, a dress or skirt and blouse, jewellery and a full face of make-up. Irena Donatella was the epitome of the 1950s housewife and the perfect, if not nagging, mother.
“Luca Massimo, do not swear in my presence,” Mum scolded, walking over to the table and snagging a linen napkin, then waving it at me.
“I raised you not to eat like an animal, young man, and you should be sitting at the table with cutlery eating like a decent human being.”
Pointing my fork at her, I smirked but closed my mouth and continued chewing.
“I am using cutlery. See? As for living here, as I said, I’m not getting into this with you again. I’m meeting the boys for drinks in a little while, and I just need something to tide me over.”
Mum huffed, but I saw that she was at least letting go of her favourite argument.
“Beer and a bar meal, really Luca, what would your father say?”
Probably the same as you, but right now, I don’t give a shit.
I let my inner thoughts slide through to the keeper and instead shrugged and shoved another fork of pasta and meat into my mouth.
Twenty-nine years old and I was still getting lectures from my mother, still getting the third degree about how I lived my life. I loved my mum and my sisters but sometimes—
“Luca, you should be taking Naomi out for dinners and movies, not hanging out with those men in pubs with women of ill repute.”
“Mum, please stop,” I interrupted harsher than I intended. Seeing my mum shrink back from me caused shame to seep into me. Her insistence on pushing her friend’s daughter and me together all of a sudden my tipping point. The few dates that we had been on ended with one night in my bed … one night that I had not been able to perform. She tried, fuck, I tried, but there just wasn’t anything there to spark, I pretty much just went through the motions of sex, my dick not so much into it as Naomi had been. Eventually giving up on coming myself instead, I got her to climax as quickly as possible, doing anything to get it over and finished with. A pretty face and banging body weren’t all it took to start the party in my pants, so to speak. Nope, I wanted so much more than that. I wanted that spark, that certain fire from a lady, not someone who wanted to stay at home and bake biscotti, greeting me at the front door wearing pearls and heels.
I wasn’t my father, no matter how much Mum wished that I was.
Fuck.
Sliding the plate onto the bench, I quickly made my way to my mum, taking her in my arms and cuddling her slight frame to my chest–the tiny shudders of her body and the badly held in sob breaking my heart.
“Please don’t cry, Mum, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“I miss him, Luca, I want him here with us.” My heart squeezed painfully in my chest at the mention of my dad. The day he died, life for everyone in my family changed, no one’s more than my mother’s. She went from Suzy Homemaker, a mother who could and did do everything for her family, energetic, racing around after her kids ferrying them to one event and another to … nothing.
The day Dad died, Mum sat in her chair in the lounge room and stayed that way for months. She just sat and looked out the window at the lavender garden Dad had planted for her, just staring. Her church friends came by day after day and told her to sit, their advice pissed me off at the time, but the old ways and beliefs were too strong for me to penetrate with any sense. It took my sisters and I months, but we finally got her to leave the house, go to church rather than have Mass and Communion at home. Eventually those outings extended to shopping and visiting but she lost her drive and love of life, instead she chose to organise her children’s lives.
None of us escaped her battle of attack, including Holly and Sandy, only separated by sixteen months at the time of Dad’s death, followed by the youngest, Phoebe, having just turned eight. Thankfully the girls held Mum’s attention more than I did, with me in university and part-time working at the family business, I didn’t cop it as bad as they did. I had outside requirements and responsibilities to attend to, keeping me out of the house more often than not. The girls, being younger, had nothing but school and Mum. It was the four of them that suffered more than I did. Mum worked her magic and moulded each girl into a miniature version of herself, overbe
aring, nagging and caring, all wrapped up in pretty brunette packages.
Their objective in life was to piss me off. And to marry me off to Naomi. Mum wasn’t aware that I tried things with Naomi a year ago. We went out for the obligatory dinner and movie a few times, ended up in bed once. For me, it was like going through the motions of sex. We got naked, I kissed her and made her come. Naomi called it the best night of her life, and I called it a complete and utter disaster. She knew so little about men … about me, and she didn’t even notice that I faked my orgasm. The fact that I used a condom helped pull that subterfuge off, pulling out and tossed the rubber before she could manage to see anything. I made the right sounds, the right gestures, all with the wrong woman.
Slowly, I backed away from Naomi, not answering her texts with more than the necessary replies, not committing to a time to go out again. I felt like a fucking dog at the time for doing it, but hurting a woman’s feelings was not in my blood, and that was what would have happened if I continued to see her. Growing up in a household of females, I learnt at a young age; feminine tears were a trap for the heart. Finally, Naomi gave up or got the message, one or the other, and we went back to being the kids of our mother’s friend.
Rubbing soothing circles on Mum’s back, I bit back the retort I should say to her and instead went with only what Mum wanted to hear–with a twist.
“We all miss him, Mum, but he isn’t here anymore, and we can’t live wishing that he was.” The second the words left my mouth, I regretted letting my frustrations leading me to speak my mind. This was neither the time nor the place to let Mum know Naomi and I were never going to happen.
“This family needs you, Luca, I need you,” Mum sobbed into my shirt, her hands fisting my shirt at my back, “if it wasn’t for you, I would have left to be with your father long ago.” And there it was—Mum’s golden goose.
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