The Italian

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.”

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 fact 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.

“Are you serious?” I frown.

“Very.”

I exhale and turn toward the camera, giving it my best fuck you look. Don’t mess with me, asshole. I’ll smash your fucking camera over your head in a minute. If he doesn’t let me in, I’m going postal and wrecking something.

“Yes, sir.” She hangs up and comes back to me, unimpressed. “Junco will escort you up to Mr. Ferrara’s office now.”

“I can go by myself.”

“Nobody enters the building unescorted.” She glares at me. “You have an eight-minute appointment.”

I glare right back. “I’ll only need two.”

The security guard approaches us. “This way.” He leads me over to the elevator, and I get in behind him. He stays solemn and stares straight ahead. With every floor we go up, I feel a little crazier.

He leaves me in a prison.

He calls me a Tinder whore.

He didn’t want me.

Well, fuck him.

The elevator doors open, and I step out like I’m the Devil himself.

Mr. Ferrara messed with the wrong girl.

We arrive into a reception area, and it’s not at all what I expected. It’s made from black marble, modern, and very futuristic with dark timber finishes. The ceiling has a huge crystal chandelier hanging from the roof. There’s another guard on the floor, as well as two receptionists sitting at a long, black desk.

Why does he have so much security?

Mafiosi

Fuck.

“Just take a seat. Mr. Ferrara will be out shortly.” A receptionist gestures to a large, leather sofa.

“Is that his office?” I ask, pointing to the oversized, double timber doors.

“Yes. He won’t be a moment.”

Without another thought, I turn and storm through the doors, forcing them open.

The bang echoes through the space, and I hear the receptionists gasp from behind me.

Oh jeez, so dramatic. I should be on The Bold and the Beautiful or something.

“No, no, no.” Junco runs in behind me.

Rico looks up at me in surprise from behind a huge black desk. A sexy smirk crosses his lips as he sits back in his leather chair, holding a pen in his hand. “Miss Reynolds.”

Another man is sitting at his desk, and he watches me with beady eyes, his interest piqued.

My sanity snaps. “Don’t you Miss Reynolds me,” I growl.

Junco grabs my arm. “Fuori adesso.” Translation: outside now. “So sorry, Mr. Ferrara.”

Enrico’s smirk breaks into a grin, and he holds his hand up. “Esci.” Translation: get out. “Leave us.”

Junco looks between us.

“Now,” Rico commands.

Junco bows his head and leaves the room,

“Anche tu.” Translation: you too.

The other man stands and nods before he exits the office. The doors shut quietly behind him.

I stare at the smug as fuck bastard behind his big desk. He’s equally as sexy but I’m choosing to ignore that.

I hate him.

He sits back in his chair as his eyes hold mine.

Electricity crackles through the air between us.

My poor heart may not survive today’s activities.

“Olivia.”

I grit my teeth, I hate the way he says my name. Husky and deep. Ol – liv-i-ah.

It’s almost melodic.

Most definitely sexual.

The sound of his voice scatters my senses, and I stare at him as I search for an intelligent response.

He gestures to the chair in front of me. “Please, take a seat.”

“Go to Hell.” My hands clench into fists as they hang by my thighs. I can’t remember ever being this angry at someone.

His tongue slowly darts out and sweeps over his bottom lip. He raises a brow. “Don’t you dare come into my office and give me that tone.”

“I’ll do whatever I fucking like.”

He stands and walks around the desk toward me. Our eyes are locked, and I swallow the lump in my throat.

His power surrounds me. I feel myself brace as I wait for his angry onslaught.

He leans his behind onto his desk and crosses his ankles in front of him. He’s wearing a navy suit and a crisp white shirt. His shoes are the black leather pointy kind, and his chunky, obviously expensive watch sits heavily on his wrist.

He grips the desk beneath him. “Let me guess. You were in the area and thought you’d drop in?”

Damn him and his dark hair, chiseled jaw, and his big red lips. I begin to feel my pulse quicken. This is not in the plan, Olivia.

“Cut the shit, asshole,” I fire back, furious that my traitorous body has the audacity to still find him attractive.

Amusement crosses his face, and he breaks out into a low chuckle.

“This isn’t funny.”

“I would apologize, but I disagree.”

I narrow my eyes, contempt dripping from my every pore. “What are you apologizing for?”

“Laughing. What else?” He raises his brow.

I can’t believe this. He’s fucking infuriating. “How about you start with the caveman act during my date on Saturday night. I would like an apology for that.”

He clenches his jaw and stands, angered. “He wasn’t your date.”

“Yes. He was.”

“You met him on Tinder. Don’t insult my intelligence, Olivia. Tinder isn’t dating.”

“What do you care who I date?”

“I don’t,” he fires back. “Get out. You’re not the woman I thought you were, anyway.”

“Ha!” I cry. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

“The what?”

“You’re not even a man. Your good looks and money can’t hide what a fucking asshole you really are.”

He lifts his chin in defiance. “Since when do you curse so much?”

“Since now.”

“Go back to Tinder, Olivia.” He rolls his eyes. “I am not interested in your dramatics.”

I lose control. “How dare you,” I sneer. “What man leaves a woman in a prison to rot?”

“I organized for the best lawyer in Italy to bail you out.”

“But where were you?” I cry as my eyes fill with tears. I swipe them away, annoyed with myself for baring a weakness. “You left me when I needed you the most. I needed a friend.” My voice cracks betraying my bravery act.

“I had a lot on my plate. It was a very bad time for me.”

“Yes, I know. You and your thousands of lovers. You make me sick.”

“You fuck strangers on Tinder,” he growls. “I should have left you in that cell to rot.”

I lose it, step forward, and I slap him hard across his face. The crack echoes through the room. We stare at each other, hate running between us, and I’m not entirely sure that he isn’t going to slap me back. The look on his face is murderous. “You were the last man I slept with, asshole, not that that’s any of your business,” I sneer. “Yes, I know that’s pathetic, and damn it, I’ll be rectifying the situation immediately. You left a bitter taste in my mouth, and up until now, I couldn’t stomach the thought of being with another. But thank you very much for reminding me of what you really are. I am well and truly ready to meet a real man.”

His eyes hold mine. His chest rises and falls, as if he’s grappling for control.

“Don’t come near me ever again,” I whisper. “I hate you. I wish we’d never met.” I turn and storm toward the door. I open it in a rush to find four security guards waiting. “Move!” I yell, and they quickly jump out of my way.

“Olivia!” Enrico calls from behind me. “Get back here.”

I run to the elevator. The doors are still open, and I slam the button to close them.

The numbers start to go down, and I run my hands through my hair as I try to control my erratic heart. Oh my God, that is the exact opposite of what I wanted to say.

Why did I come here?

The elevator doors open, and I run out of the building. I duck around the corner and lean up against the wall, closing my eyes.

What a disaster.

I climb the never-ending stairs, and I drink out of my water bottle. I’m wet with perspiration but nowhere near the end of my workout. I can’t stop; I’m too wound up. I didn’t expect for Enrico to rattle me the way that he did.

I cringe every time I think of myself tearing up in that asshole’s office this morning.

Stupid fool. What on earth was I thinking?

The gym seems like a great place to try and punish myself. I wipe my perspiration with my towel and I keep on climbing. Perhaps this is the secret to working out hard—anger. Maybe all the people who smash it at the gym are really just pissed off individuals who have no other outlet. Makes perfect sense. Right now, I feel like I could take on Rocky Balboa and kick his ass.

My phone rings. It’s Giorgio.

“Hello,” I pant.

“Where are you?”

“The gym.”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“I guess. Although you should be doing me a favor after the hangover you gave me.”

He laughs, and I find myself smiling. I have no idea why Giorgio and I have clicked, but he’s fun and we seem to have strung up an unlikely friendship.

“I completely forgot that I have a black-tie charity event tomorrow night. Angelo is away and can’t make it. Will you be my date?”

“Seriously?” I continue to climb. “I can’t, I have nothing to wear.”

“You can wear a dress from work. It is a work dinner. You would be on the clock, technically.”

I roll my eyes.

“Please. I just have to show my face. We can have dinner, a few cocktails, and be home before ten.”

“Giorgio,” I sigh. “Really?”

“Great, I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow night.”

I stay silent.

“Please?” he whines.

“Fine.”

“What’s wrong with you? You don’t sound your usual happy self.”

“I’m at the gym killing myself.”

“I should be doing the same. Thank you. See you then.” He hangs up before I can change my mind.

Jeez, this is the day that keeps on giving.

I smile to myself as I unzip the first suit bag. My breath catches as my eyes roam over the gorgeous red evening dress. It’s fitted with spaghetti straps and it is backless. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, let alone imagined I would have the chance to wear it. I unzip the second bag to see gold and sequins. The third bag holds black lace. It goes on and on.

Wowsers.

I have a dress you can wear, Giorgio said. That was the understatement of the year. Being friends with the boss of Valentino seems to have its perks. Perks that come in the form of gorgeous evening wear being delivered to your hotel room in your exact size.

My blonde hair has been styled in big, loose curls, and pinned back on one side. My makeup is smoky, and I even pulled out my sexy underwear for the occasion.

I look through the six dresses that have been sent over but my eyes keep going back to the red one. The fabric is embossed, the detail on the stitching, the way it falls at the back, the shade of red—it’s all so incredible. I hold it up in front of my body and stare at my reflection in the mirror. A big smile crosses my face.

Maybe this week isn’t a complete disaster after all. I’m going out in Valentino.

Who have I become?

I look around the big ballroom in wonder as Giorgio leads me by my arm. We weave through the beautiful people and make our way over to the seating arrangement chart. He studies it in great detail.

“Wow.” This place is ridiculous with over the top chandeliers hanging low and huge candelabras lining the walls.

“These things are always over the top,” Giorgio says as he looks around, distracted. “This is our table here.”

We make our way over and he pulls out my chair. We take a seat at the large, round table, set with ten places. It’s covered with white table linen and set with fancy silverware. There are dozens of fresh flowers, all in different shades of cream.

A waiter arrives. “Can I get you a drink, sir?”

Giorgio’s eyes flick to me. “Champagne to start?”

“Sounds great.” I smile.

“Two champagnes, please.”

I smile as I look around. I recognize some people from my design studies. Never in a million years did I think I would ever be the in the same room with them.

“I feel like a celebrity or some shit with all these famous people here,” I lean in and whisper.

He chuckles, clearly amused. “Well, those famous people were all staring at my gorgeous date. You’re the most breathtaking woman in the room.”

“Why am I your date? I’m sure you have a million girlfriends you could have asked.”

“This is true,” he says as our drinks arrive. “Although, unlike them, I have an invested interest in you.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say that I find you fascinating, Olivia Reynolds.”

“Me,” I scoff. “Fascinating?”

He glances down at his watch. “All will be revealed shortly.”

“Giorgio!” someone calls from afar. A man standing with a group of people waves him over.

“Marcel.” He laughs. “I’ll be back in a moment, darling. Are you all right here for a moment?”

“I’m fine. Go do your thing.”

He stands and goes to the other side of the ballroom. I watch on as he kisses everyone on both cheeks.

“Buongiorno,” a voice says.

I turn to see a man in a black dinner suit standing behind my chair. He’s dashingly handsome with a honey-colored hair and big brown eyes.

“I don’t speak Italian, I’m sorry. Do you speak English?”

He sits down in the seat beside me and holds out his hand to mine. “Hello, my name is Sergio.”

I shake his hand. “I’m Olivia.”

“Are you new to Milan, Olivia? I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Yes.” I smile. “Although, I’m sure you don’t see everyone in Milan.”

“When a woman is as beautiful as you, I would have remembered her.” His eyes hold mine. “And I would have most definitely approached her to introduce myself.”

I open my mouth to speak but no words come out. I feel my face flush. “Are you here alone?” he asks.

“I’m here with a friend.” I gesture to Giorgio who is now watching the two of us.

“Ah.” He smiles. “I have competition.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “If only I wasn’t working tonight.”

“You’re working here tonight?” I ask.

“Yes, my boss is on his way.”

“You work in fashion?”

He grins, amused. “A little.”

“Do you work for a design house?”

“I’m in…” He pauses, as if searching for the right word. “Security.”

“Oh. You’re someone here’s security?”

“Yes.” He smiles, reaches over and picks up my hand, lifting it to his lips. “Can I have your number? I would like to call you tomorrow.”

I frown as I watch his mouth dust my skin. “I… oh, I…”

He pushes something in his ear, and it is then that I notice he’s wearing an earpiece.

“Me ne vado subito.” Translation: I’ll be right out. His eyes flick to me. “I have to go. My boss is here. I shall be back later.” He kisses my hand again as he stands. “Don’t have fun without me, Olivia.”

He rushes off, and I smile as I watch him disappear out of the room.

He was… interesting.

Giorgio falls back into the seat beside me. “What did he want?” he whispers.

I smile against my champagne glass. “My number, apparently.”

He rolls his eyes and picks up his drink, unimpressed. “I’m sure his boss would be thrilled about that.”

I glance over at him and frown. “Why, who’s his boss?”

Giorgio lifts his chin to the door, and I see Sergio walk into the room with a group of men. Someone is trailing behind them while speaking to another man, and I crane my neck to see who it is. He slowly comes into view.

Black dinner suit.

Square jaw.

Power that emanates throughout the room like a shockwave.

Fuck.

Enrico Ferrara just arrived.