“The next time we see each other”—I walk over to Peppe and crouch low—“aim higher.”
It’s only a matter of time before we uncover the person who paid Franco and the woman he saw at Eden. They’re both connected, and when I prove it, we go to war.
Chapter 6
Naked in Naples
Bianca
I’m never moving back to the US. I’ll call and write when the mood strikes, but Naples and I go together now. Me and this three-floor penthouse I have all to myself.
“Penthouse” doesn’t do my new home justice. I’ve seen a couple in person in New York and on plenty of those real estate shows that require a sugar daddy or someone with a foot fetish to afford. The place I’m in, with views of the city and the sea, is heaven on Earth. The kind of home that tempts a person to drain their 401(k) to afford the $1.9 million price tag. It’s not for sale—and I don’t have millions stored away for a rainy day—but a girl can dream.
That’s all I’ve been doing since I arrived three days ago.
Dreaming.
Catching up on years of sleep.
Reveling in the magic of Italian carbs.
I was drowning in Jersey City, constantly on the go but never moving to a destination that included peace or the stillness to enjoy it. Here, I have both. I wake up less stressed, with moretime to sit in gratitude, not scrambling to catch a commuter ferry while checking bottomless work emails.
I’ll need to figure out my next source of income that won’t contribute to premature grays and stress hemorrhoids. For now, I’m enjoying every inch of the three terraces and five bedrooms this penthouse offers. I’ve already slept in three beds, one for each day I’ve been in the birthplace of pizza to find the right one.
Like Goldilocks, without the audacity or the breaking and entering.
Mama Vee would’ve loved this. A private pool and garden. Exposed stone walls. Panoramic views in the living room. She adored her HGTV shows and swore she’d travel the world to experience the luxury she read about in magazines.
I think about her when I journal with a latte on the balcony outside my room. What she’d think of me finally putting myself over a job I should’ve left while she was alive.
“There are no U-Hauls on the back of hearses, Bianca,” she’d scold with a hand over her wide hip,you know bettertrained in her stare.
If only she could see me now. Well, notright now.
The hammock sways next to the edge of the pool. It’s tied to two trees, holding my weight while obscuring my nudity from neighboring buildings. Because that’s what a girl does when she has a whole-ass penthouse to herself.
Sunbathe naked with pastries.
A deep moan slips through as my teeth sink into a fried wedge. Crispy dough dusted in powdered sugar slides past my lips with a custard topping threatening to snap every toe. My body melts into the hammock’s woven fabric.
The pastry I picked up at the cake shop across the street is no orgasm, but it’s close enough.
“I’m never going back,” I mumble, eyes closed behind a large pair of sunglasses.
The morning sun kisses my skin. I part my legs and sink deeper into the hammock with a sigh. Warmth laps each nipple, heating my flesh in ways no one has before.
…how long has it been?
The fact that I’m doing long division is a problem. I’ve read about touch starvation, the craving for human connection after a long period without it, but I never thought it would be a personal testimony. Yet here I am, dividing by five to remember the last person who touched me beyond a pat on the back or a familial hug.
Seventeen years at Hamilton Capital and only three men come to mind. Two were short-lived affairs. I cheated on my work schedule, a couple of weeks here, a weekend there. Neither man was memorable, but no one has come close to the two years of my life wasted on my first and only relationship.
Jordan Cohen is a top real estate agent in New York City. The sex was decent, and he always insisted on me staying at his Park Avenue penthouse. He was a workaholic who fed me crumbs with the occasional dinner each week. I was naïve at twenty-three, fresh out of college with my first “real” job.
It never crossed my mind that Jordan had a family in Connecticut. I found out about his wife and son after showing up to surprise him at his awards ceremony. I got a surprise, alright, and was escorted out before I could make a scene.
K-Swift and Blaqstarr’s “Rider Girl” cuts across the pool. I yelp at the hammock swinging left but dismount without busting my ass or scraping my knees. The dimples in my booty jiggle on the quick jog around the pool to my phone.
