“What you did was shit, Pietro.”
“I’m so terribly sorry. You were right. What I did was caused by pre-wedding jitters.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that you kissed me.”
“Please, Chiara. I beg you. Don’t tell anyone that.”
“I won’t, but you need to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“My father wants to cancel my trip to the States because of what happened this weekend. You need to tell him why I bailed from the wedding.”
“What do you mean I have to tell him? You mean the truth?”
“Yes, Pietro. The truth.”
“Chiara, I can’t do that.”
“It’s either you confess to my father, knowing he won’t tell a soul, or I tell everyone.”
I’m hoping Pietro is dumb enough to not realize my word means nothing in my family.
“What if your father decides to tell Paola?”
“He won’t. I’ll make sure of it.”
I wait with bated breath for his answer. If Pietro calls my bluff, I can say goodbye to California.
He sighs deeply. “All right, Chiara. I’ll do it.”
12
Alistair
Two months later
I loosen my tie as I stride out of the brick building where the meeting with the mediator took place. What a waste of time. I couldn’t sit in that room face-to-face with Nadine and listen to her five-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyer try to convince the mediator that the bitch deserved half the vineyard I gave to my parents for their fortieth anniversary. He said I had no right to make such a gift without her signature on the deed, never mind that we had a fucking prenup in place.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and sure enough, it’s my lawyer calling. I send the call to voice mail. I don’t want to talk to him either. I tried my best to keep things out of court, but Nadine is asking for it. She thinks my need for privacy will make me do anything to keep the sordid details of our divorce from reaching the press.
I snort loudly. That boat sailed a long time ago when I made the mistake of marrying her, a B-movie actress.
It doesn’t matter anyway. Word on the street is she’s looking for someone to sell her sappy story to. I can’t think of anyone who would be interested in such garbage, but stranger things have happened, and this is Hollywood, after all.
It’s my damn fault anyway. I should have left this dreadful town when I had the chance.
Grumbling, I get into my truck and text Lance, one of my oldest buddies from college, hoping he can meet me at the gym today. I need a good workout to get rid of the tension.
ME: Want to hit the tatami in twenty?
A minute later, he fires back.
LANCE:Fuck yeah. Just got out of a board meeting. I’m ready to punch something.
ME: Good. See you in a few.
I toss the phone aside, and with the click of a button, the engine comes to life and Breaking Benjamin blares through the speakers. I increase the volume, feeling the sound of bass and drums reverberate through my chest. As I tap the steering wheel in sync with the song, I wonder if Chiara would like this type of music.
Shit. Here I go again thinking about her. To be honest, there hasn’t been a day since I returned from Italy that her image hasn’t invaded my mind. I haven’t been able to hook up with any other woman since either. I’m one of the few people who doesn’t do social media, and it’s the only reason I haven’t searched for her yet. It’s a good thing. She snuck out of that hotel room in Florence without a word or note for a reason. I have to respect that.
By the time I arrive at Ginga, a gym and martial arts center owned by another good friend of mine, I’m ready to do some damage. I have to get back to work on Monday, and if I don’t get rid of this pent-up aggression, I don’t know how I’ll be able to do my job without ripping someone’s head off.
It’s close to lunchtime, so the gym is already packed. Most of the weight lifting machines are in use, and there’s already a group of guys waiting to take their turn in the boxing ring. I veer toward the back of the gym, where the martial arts practice room is. When there isn’t a class in session, this becomes a private room for Caio—the owner of this place—and his closest friends.
The door is wide open, and before venturing in, I can already hear the grunts and the muffled sound of flesh pounding against a punching bag. Lance is there, covered in sweat.
“How the hell did you beat me here?”
“I was on my way when you texted,” he answers without stopping his routine of kicks and punches.
“Is Caio joining us?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t seen him today.”
Shrugging, I head to the locker room to change. When I return, Lance has already moved on to solo exercises. I need to warm up first before I can engage him in hand-to-hand combat. Lance is a fucking beast on the tatami, fast as a cobra. The only person he can’t beat is Caio, but the Brazilian is a legend.
It doesn’t matter that most likely I’ll have my ass handed to me today. As long as I can get some punches in, I’ll be happy.
