Page 2 of Painted Truths

Henry

As our chauffeured car pulls up at the entrance to Velvet, London's hottest new nightlife, my phone rings with an ear-splitting shriek.

"Christ, DeMarco. Ever heard of muting that shit?!"

My companions for the evening, one newly signed rock star in the making and one washed-up award-winning author, have clamped their hands over their ears as my heart sinks. That's the tone assigned to my asshat of a father, undoubtedly ringing to give me shit over some misconstrued fault or other, ruining the night before it's even begun.

Knowing better than to ignore the old wanker, I give Nate and Caden, the writer and the rocker respectively, my middle finger before using said finger to swipe the answer button.

"Dad. What's up?"

"Rico." My jaw ticks instantly at his unwillingness to call me Henry, the name I prefer. Yet another reminder of our lack of familiarity. "You never answered my email. Lunch tomorrow, yes? I need to talk with you about something important, and it cannot wait any longer."

Internally heaving an exhausted sigh while gritting my teeth, I reply the only way you can to my father. With an unwilling affirmative. "Fine. Have your assistant text me the details."

I'm about to hang up. After all, my previous conversations with my neglectful, workaholic father over the past twenty-one years since my mother died have been short and lacklustre. Then I hear his voice again. His hard-won British accent all but gone as he speaks in his mother tongue.

"Grazie… Figlio Mio."

My brow furrows in confusion, but he's already dropped the call. I don't remember the last time he called me anything other than my given name, despite the fact I go by Henry. I prefer the English version of Enrico, which is my father's name, having been named for his father, and his father's father and, I'm sure you get the gist. The joy of traditional Italian forebears.

But Mum was British, born and bred. She'd wanted to honour her own heritage, and so she'd always called me Henry. My father had too.

Before.

After her passing, everyone referred to me as Enrico, and as time passed, it was easier to just let them. My friends have continued to call me Henry and still do, and they're the only people who truly matter anyway.

The business world and everyone else knows me as my father's heir, Enrico, but Christ, it burns. I want as little to do with that man as possible.

Rapidly compartmentalising the conversation with my sperm donor slash boss, I shake my head to purge it of him. Of the ridiculous life choices he'd made that led me to become the cold bastard I am today.

My mother would be turning in her grave.

Just then, the driver comes around to open our door, forcing me from my reverie, allowing Nate to exit, followed by Caden, with yours truly drawing up the rear in our band of brothers.

As quickly as I've exited the vehicle, I want to return to the safety and anonymity of its confines. But instead, the swarm of paparazzi surrounding us is at least three bodies deep—a disgusting, heaving mass with no security in place whatsoever.

He'd sworn to me there'd be little to no media.

I'll kill the prick!

"I'm never going anywhere with you again, North, you fucking asshole!"

Careful I don't hurt one of these paparazzi wankers hungry for a glimpse of the latest golden boy on the music scene, I inch interminably closer to the door. At the same time, the object of my frustration throws his blonde head back, laughing long and loud.

More flashes and jostling continue as the vultures attempt to snag their money shot of a laughing Cade. Velvet's security team gets the crowd under control, allowing us to enter the building as civilised as possible, considering the circumstances.

At long last. North has always loved creating drama, and this evening's shitshow was him and his antics to a goddamn T.

"I told Noah to make sure the security was in place, but he said the free publicity was worth its weight in gold, man. Don't get your knickers in a knot!"

Unable to stop the grin that appears on my face, as if by magic, in answer to his bright, fun-loving smile, I throw my hands up in mock exasperation, earning chortles from both of my friends.

"Good evening, gentlemen. I'm Brielle, your liaison for the night. If you could just follow me this way, please."

A petite brunette, with a generous helping of curves on display, wears a low-cut red dress that clings to her ass like it has been spray-painted on, leads us through a maze of dimly lit corridors before ascending a staircase with two doors at the top.

The first door is set back from the stairs with a large black and gold sign pronouncing it: The Powder Room.