"Loving you had consequences, consequences I didn't even know existed until I met you."
Aria DeLuca, a powerful, confident young woman, is the daughter of the wealthiest man in Italy. When her dad told her she was going to spend a month in Dubai, s...
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My morning starts with the slam of the training room door. The door slams behind me as I yank my jacket off, throwing it to the floor.
Enzo, who previously was running on the treadmill, pauses and slowly takes his headphones off, staring at me as I storm through the training facility to reach the door at the end of the room.
With a vigorous pull, the door flies open to reveal a shooting range. My wrath could be tangible. Infuriated was an understatement. I was enraged, and I desperately needed to release my anger. What better way to do that than to practice my shooting? I picked up the first gun I could find. For once, I did not care what gun I'd be using to imagine myself shooting my father.
With one swift movement, I wrench the noise-cancelling headphones on and over my head, placing them over my ear. Words cannot describe my rage currently. Memories from my meeting with my father from a few minutes ago come reeling back into my mind, replaying like a cassette tape on a loop.
⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧
10minutesago
Currently, I'm making my way to my father's office per his request to see me at eight a.m. How did I find this out? The pathetic piece of shit got his secretary to inform me; he couldn't even be bothered to tell me himself! I curl and uncurl my fists, taking in a couple of deep breaths to calm down. It might seem woeful to get this worked up over my own blood, but when it comes to him? I couldn't give a fuck.
After a few minutes of walking and climbing up several flights of stairs, I've arrived at the entrance of my dad's headquarters. I close my eyes and continue to take my deep breaths. I desperately need to loosen up. If my dad saw me like this, I'd never hear the end of it. Mockery is the worst kind of insult from my father. Once, when I was 9, he caught me crying after I had a small slip in the kitchen. God, he wouldn't let it go for a whole year. A year for Christ's sake!
Afterpromptlycomposing myself, I press down on the handle of the door, barging into his headquarters. My father looks up from the documents on his death, overlooking his glasses to peerat me before an amused grin falls lazily onto his face. "Aria! Come sta la mia carissima figlia?" Aria! How's my dearest daughter? He asks, taking a brief sip of his drink before placingthe cup back down onto his desk. Instead of replying, I give him a glare in response. I strongly despise when he decides he wants to be sarcastic. The man is a walking joke; he doesn't need tobesarcastictoo.
He raises his eyebrows and exhales, "Beh, vedo che sei di buon umore oggi." Well, I see you're in a fine mood today. I only give him a few moments to reply, in which he doesn't, so I take matters into my own hands. "What," I pause momentarily. "Do you want?" I enquire; I cut straight to the point; I'd rather get out of here within the next few minutes.
