Azalea Faye Larau - The sweetheart socialite with a fire underneath and an up and coming ballet dancer in London striving to stay afloat in an ocean of sharks, all the while dealing with heartbreak and loss.
Harlan Emeric Marchetti - The Italian Maf...
"It's a matter of time before I hunt you down, grab your chin, and kiss your lips."
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- H A R L A N - E M E R I C - M A R C H E T T I -
The soft ticking of the antique clock on the wall was the only sound in the room. London's rain streaked against the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, a rhythmic backdrop to the tense conversation unfolding before me.
The gray skies mirrored my mood—heavy and volatile.
Tommy leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his usual nonchalance masking the tension I knew he felt.
Ramiro sat beside him, his fingers drumming against the armrest, betraying his unease.
"So your father knows, and now..." Tommy trailed off, glancing at me for some sign of how I was taking this.
I kept my gaze on the city outside, swirling the golden liquid in my glass, the amber light catching on the rim as if it held all my answers.
My eyes flicked to Tommy's for a split second, daring him to continue. He cleared his throat and exchanged a glance with Ramiro, who was already bracing himself for my reaction.
"What he's trying to say is... how Roberto took it," Ramiro said carefully. His voice was even, but the underlying caution was evident.
They both knew I wasn't in the mood for riddles and were aware of how cranky I had been lately—lack of sleep did that to you.
One would think after more than fifteen years of severe insomnia, I'd get used to it. And I did, all until she came along and brought with her the peace that quieted my chaos. I hadn't seen her in days, and it was eating at me.
"And how do you think?" I responded, leaning back in my chair. My tone was sharp enough to cut glass.
I sighed when my phone buzzed with an alert, but it didn't take a genius to guess what it was about. The loud, deliberate footsteps on the staircase and then in the hallway confirmed it.
"Should we be worried?" Tommy asked, frowning as he glanced at the door. The footsteps grew louder, heavier, until the office door was thrown open with a force that echoed off the walls.
"Papa," I drawled, a lazy smirk tugging at my lips that didn't reach my eyes, "We were just talking about you."
My father, Roberto Marchetti, stormed in, his presence as commanding as ever. His nostrils flared as he slammed the door shut behind him, muttering something under his breath that was no doubt unflattering.
"You son of a—"
"Ah, ah, ah," I tutted, interrupting him as I put my glass on the table and held up a finger to stop him from continuing, "Careful how you speak about my mother."
