Devotion

eighteen ﾒ illicit affairs pt. 1

LUCA

At 8:15 p.m., I declared a mission between Angelica and me. We have a project to do along with our focus steering towards public enemy #1, Mia Bardot, and the fact that we have to dig into our parents' history because they decided to keep on the legacy of becoming heirs to the Mafia family.

Ah, how perfect, you know. Having to kill and still live in luxury. So blessed, truly. And that was sarcasm. I kind of hate the position I'm in. Do I love the money? Of course. Am I fascinated by the amount of attention I get from women? Yes, but mildly.

My life doesn't revolve around women, but if needed, time is made for them. Like now. I texted her five seconds ago with half of my attention on my phone and the other bit on the road as I drove down the residential gated street.

Angelica: Park a block away.

I call her, and she picks up but doesn't say hello. "A block away is too far. Not when it's night and people try shit at night with women."

"Rowan and my dad will see you," she says, the sound of her heels slightly clacking through the hallways. "I don't care if our fathers know we're doing a project, but I do care about the attention."

"Any attention is good attention. Take it as a compliment." I park outside of her house behind a bush. "Now, use those spy skills your family taught you to sneak out of the damn house."

She groans. "I'm old. I'm not a child."

"Uh-huh," I say in a sarcastic tone. "Sure."

"Which means I don't need to sneak out. I can just leave like the regular civilian I am." Her footsteps click louder until I find a dark figure approaching the tinted window.

I roll down the window with a press of the button and look at Angelica. "Hello, beautiful. You're late," I say with a smile on my face. My compliment wasn't an exaggeration either. She looks good tonight, like an actual spy. But then again, we are in a mafia family, so.

Angelica was dressed in a black cashmere sweater, dark wash skinny jeans, knee-high boots, and, to add the finishing touches, a long black trench coat. She crosses her arms with her purse in hand and looks at me. "Are you trying to have a staring contest with me?"

"I'd beat you at it; I know that," I say. "Take a step back so I can get out and help you in the car." She moves back, the wind whipping her curls as she stands there. I open the door and place a hand on the small of her back, guiding her to the passenger seat.

When I open her door and make sure she's alright, before I have the chance to get back to my seat, she says, "I can hold eye contact longer."

"Prove it," I say. My door shuts, and when I turn my head in her direction, her green eyes are staring me down. "Didn't even let me gather myself up first."

She gets immediately distracted. God, she has a terrible attention span. Angelica begins to remove her jacket and lay it across his lap before sighing in exhaustion. "Christ, I'm tired," she says. "You couldn't wait until tomorrow morning when the birds are singing and the sun is shining."

I lean back in the seat as I begin driving. Not going to lie, I'm tired as shit too. I had a game earlier, and we won thankfully. But I'm ready to hit the fucking hay and call it a goddamn day. We have an exam in a couple of days, but I'm not even worried about that because I'm naturally smart.

"We're driving to Upstate, NY, to deliver a pretty package to some guys, and then we head to our first destination in this project: the adultery shit."

Her head whips so fast in my direction. "Upstate? B, I swear to fucking—"

"Aw," I interrupt. "B is short for my last name. Are we becoming best friends now?"

"Ew, don't even." She crosses her arms and stares off into the dark abyss of the highway. "It's just a hassle calling you Bertarelli every single time."

I glanced at her for a second. "So call me by my first name," I say. She glares at me. "It wouldn't sound right just coming off of my tongue. I haven't said your name since, like, what? Freshman year of high school?"

I shrug. "Say it now. There's no difference between now and then. Plus, we're stuck doing a project for the next few months, and we've known each other since fucking diapers. So, if you want to keep playing the mystery game, I'm down, but there's no point anymore."

"I don't understand why you care if I call you by your first or last names."

She shifts uncomfortably before saying, "It's hot in here." She strips away her jacket and sets it behind her. "And I like the dynamic we have going on. It's nothing personal," she says.

I nod and glance at her before keeping my eyes on the road. Alright then. So she likes the dynamic of us calling one another by the last name; I won't complain. But there's something inside of me that wants to itch that spot and call her Angelica.

At first, when we began this project a while ago, this project was nothing but getting an A+ and fucking off to the next accomplishment on my list, but as I spend my precious time with her, she's not as bad. Highly competitive, but not bad.

In my gut, years ago, I found her annoying, but I can tolerate it. If I had to choose between sitting in a room with Mia or Angelica, I'd pick the latter. She holds conversations better and looks better (even though they're both good-looking), and I enjoy the banter. Weirdly, I haven't had this much fun with a girl in a long time, and that's saying something.

I can't fall for the family's rival, though. Mere attraction to a smart, beautiful woman will not get me off track.

Okay, so back to the main finding today. Our parents had an affair 20 years ago, when Angelica and I were babies. This happened a few years ago when the De Santis twins, Leilani, Mia, and I were all children, toddlers.

I twist the steering wheel to the right on an airport runway. Angelica looks at me. "Where are we going? I thought we were going upstate."

"We are upstate, darling." I park and get out of the war without any more warning. Angelica gets out as well, with her jacket draped around her shoulders. I open the trunk and stand there with a stern expression implanted on my face.

She shifts beside me, her arm brushing against mine. "What is that?" She asks.

"Cocaine," I simply say. Before she can react, I slide on a pair of nitrile gloves and carry the box of 50 pounds of cocaine. "Come on, and don't say anything to them, alright?"

"I can handle myself." She scoffs. I know, Angelica. I just care about your safety.