Page 44 of Hostile Rival
“The woman who’s tiring you out and keeping you away from your mother. I know you better than anyone,mijo.”
“Mama.” I lean in and kiss her cheek, that familiar floral perfume of hers comforting. “No one could ever keep me away from you. I’m just figuring some stuff out.”
She sighs lightly and pinches my chin. “You've been so distant. I miss you.” A wry smile makes her eyes sparkle. “Perhaps the sweet little Italian girl who lives here could brighten your evening?”
I roll my eyes and groan. “Please stop. I am not interested in Giana Di Rossi, so quit while you’re ahead, Mama.”
Nodding once, she takes André’s hand and lets him help her step into the balmy evening air. I blow out a frustrated breath and toss the headphones.
My brothers have all found their soul mates and I’m obsessed over a woman from the wrong part of Colombia. Even a smart guy like me knows a relationship with her would be doomed.
Surrounded by armed security, I follow André and Mama to a red carpet that leads toward the imperial entrance of a property fit for royalty.
We climb a few stone steps, walk past a central water fountain, and continue into a grand foyer. It’s sensory overload.
Lights are everywhere, statues and paintings, too. A solo pianist sits at a glossy white grand piano at the far end, playing a hair-raising piece of music.
Heavy opening chords prickle my scalp. Instantly I recognize the theatrical melody asAndrew Lloyd Webber’s Phantom of the Opera.
Seconds later, a woman starts singing from a balcony high above us. I move further inside, marginally impressed by the set up and swipe a glass of champagne from a server's tray.
Casually wandering through the crowd, I dish out fake smiles here and there.
I’m used to large gatherings and social events. But that doesn't mean they interest me. Once upon a time, maybe.
These days, I see the bullshit for what it is. Empty friendships and false acquaintances. I’m not interested in talking to anyone here. Not tonight.
“This is my youngest brother, Matheus.” André’s voice slips over my shoulder.
I take a deep breath and turn around, forcing myself to wear the charming mask of Matheus Souza.
“This is Nicodemus Di Rossi, Giana’s father.” He announces.
A tall middle-aged man pins me with hazel eyes. The corners of his mouth widen, and straight teeth peek out, unnaturally bright white and clearly not his own.
I take him all in. From his tailored ivory dinner jacket and fitted black suit pants to his well-groomed salt and pepper quiff above his forehead.
He holds out his hand and leans in to make himself heard. “Call me Nico,” he says in heavily accented English. “My wife and I are indebted to your family for returning our daughter to us.”
I shake his hand. “I’m glad our people were able to assist.”
Nico glances over his shoulder. “Sì, mio amico.Now let me introduce you to Giana.” He angles his torso, his eyes running over the wealthy guests. “This event is for my daughter. To celebrate life, love, and lasting friendships.”
I drain the rest of my champagne in one mouthful and glance at André, bored already. This is how I used to feel a month or so ago. Walking through life with nothing to stimulate me. Numb. Void of interest. Barely any pulse to keep my soul alive. This evening reminds me of those dark days.
André smirks at me and taps his jacket pocket where a tin full of blunts is kept. He hates these uptight functions as much as I do.
Once we get the formalities out of the way, we’ll grab a bottle of aged whiskey, spark up, and sit on the terrace together, ignoring every fucker who doesn’t interest us.
Until then, I have to play the game and engage with these people who would benefit our kingdom. This is business, after all.
“I’ll meet her later.” I set the flute on a side table and look around me. “Where are the washrooms?”
“Ah! There she is.” Nico points through the sea of people, not answering me. This guy clearly has selective hearing. “Giana has all the time in the world for the Souzas. Especially an eligible bachelor like yourself, Matheus.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Through the gathering, my gaze settles on Giana Di Rossi. The terrified, mistreated girl from Naples had scrubbed up well, her curvy form hugged by a white satin gown. Curled earthy brown hair is long and loose, tumbling over olive skinned shoulders, and her girly smile is pleasant.
