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 little 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.”