Years ago, we tried "collaborating" with the Fontanas. It was a disaster from the first meeting.
They wanted to invest in our hotels, and my dad shut down every single suggestion like they were asking him to sacrifice his firstborn. Just because he needed more and more money.
The Fontanas wanted a more traditional vibe.
My dad wanted... whatever he wanted, probably the opposite, purely out of spite.
I swear, from what I remember, they werethisclose to actually ripping each other's hair out.
And yet, here we are.
Another deal. Another attempt at a partnership.
What the hell kind of agreement did they strike this time?
Now... Gio.
God, don't even get me started.
Thank God he's abroad too, and I won't have to deal with his ass, either. That son of a bitch made my life a living hell back then.
I scoff under my breath, shoving a pair of shoes into the suitcase with more force than necessary.
Gio had always been a smug little asshole, and I'd never liked him.
He never liked me. Not even a little.
And he made sure I knew it every damn day. He wouldn't leave me alone, which is insane, because if you hate someone that much, wouldn't you ignore them?
But no. Gio Fontana was built differently. Annoying on a spiritual level. Whenever I talked about the things I cared about, like astronomy, the books I loved, how I wanted to be a teacher—he and his pack of jackals would laugh.
Mock me. Turn literally whatever I said into a joke for their amusement. Especially Gio. I have never met anyone that full of himself.
Ever.
The guy walked around like he was God's favorite problem. The only way to shut him up, or ironically, get his attention, was to yellBIKESstraight in his face.
Instant reaction.
Like you pressed a button on a very expensive, very irritating robot. He genuinely believed being pretty, automatically made him better than all of us. Which is hilarious.
In a depressing way. The last clear memory I had of him was from when I was eleven or something.
Gio and the rest of his idiot crew were twelve, riding around on their little fake motorbikes with those stupid plastic helmets, pretending to be mafiosi while I stood off to the side, trying to convince my mother that we needed to leave.
That was eleven years ago. Then he left the country.
His dad died. I don't remember why or how.
He didn't want to live with his mom or something like that, so he went to Spain to live with his father's family. For years, literal years, I thought about checking his social media. Just to see what happened to him.
If he's alive, dead, in jail, married, missing, bald, anything.
But I never did it. Because it felt like the second I typed his name, he'd somehow know. Like he'd pop out of the screen, smirk, and roast me from whatever dimension he lives in.
I am twenty-two now.
He is twenty-three.
