WARNING: This story contains mature themes, strong language, and depictions of violence that may be upsetting for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
NICCO
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Loud, incessant chiming echoes through my bedroom, interrupting my dreams. I am not ready to be pulled from sleep. A groan slips out as I bury my face into the pillow.
Dio santo.
Make it fucking stop.
As if on cue, the rings fall silent.
Grazie a Dio.
I rejoice too soon. My phone quiets for all but two seconds before the trilling starts again.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Both eyes flick open. My vision adjusts. Darkness floods the floor-to-ceiling windows that wrap around my penthouse apartment. The city lights of London remain ever-bright. Even the moon has yet to fade from view. Annoyance pricks me.
What kind of asshole calls before the sun comes up on a goddamn Saturday?
I am not in the mood to deal with this nonsense. I have been out all night, thanks to a delightful redhead named—
Shit.
What was her name again?
Sleep deprivation clouds my mind. I cannot remember, but the muscles in my body have not forgotten her. I feel deliciously sore. The redhead and I fucked for several rounds. Nonstop. I really should be sound asleep right now. Recharging.
But the asshole won't give up.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Scowling, I grab my phone with every intention of switching it to silent mode until I see the caller ID.
Porca puttana.
The asshole is my father.
I cannot bring myself to ignore Papà. Famiglia is famiglia even when they are being a fucking pain in the ass. Irritably, I answer the phone and grunt into the receiver, "You better have a good fucking reason for calling at 4-fucking-am."
Papà explains brightly, "Mamma and I returned from our trip to New York last night. I admit, I am still a bit jetlagged. Since I could not sleep, I decided to check in with my beloved son."
"Well, as you can tell, I am alive and well and definitely not jetlagged. May I please go back to sleep?"
"Not so fast. We are only getting started here."
I grumble, "What do you want, Papà?"
"Bleekman resigned two weeks ago."
Thomas Bleekman is, no, was a department manager at Jackson & James, one of the banks our family owns in London.
Irritation shifts to suspicion. "What does his resignation have to do with me?"
"I was hoping you could step in until we find a replacement."
Cazzo.
I should have known that Papà would not give up. He has been wanting to shackle me to a life of corporate misery since I graduated from Cambridge. That was four years ago. I am pleased to say that, over the past four years, Papà has been losing this cat-and-mouse game we play while I have been gallivanting all over the world. Fucking willing women. Driving fast cars. Living my best life.
Nicco—4.
Papà—0.
Unlike the rest of mia famiglia, my accomplishments are, by choice, few and far between. Papà runs multimillion-dollar businesses. Mamma is a surgeon. Viviana can shoot down a moving target as skillfully as she plays the piano. I, however, see no need to strive for excellence. It is unnecessary. To be born a Vitale is a blessing enough. At the age of twenty-six, I am already set for life. I will inherit a billion-dollar empire without having to lift a finger.
Viviana can take on the headaches of my parents' enterprises. My younger sister possesses the necessary discipline to succeed as a Vitale. I am nothing like Vivi. In contrast, I am useless, aimless, and, thus, happier by far.
I do not even think twice about turning him down, "That will be a hard pass for me. Go find yourself another candidate."
"You are not interested in my offer?"
"Not at all."
"Are you certain?"
"I have never felt more certain of anything in my life."
"That is a shame," Papà remarks, "because Mamma and I are running short on patience."
"I thought a parent's love was supposed to be unconditional?"
"This is called tough love. You have been fucking around long enough. We refuse to watch you waste your potential on fast cars and fast women for another twenty-six years."
Smirking, I quip, "Then look away. I am not giving up my fast cars or my fast women. They are two of life's greatest blessings."
He warns, "This is your last chance to reconsider. If you reject this opportunity, you will be on your own."
Surprise runs through me. "Excuse me?"
A hard edge enters his voice when he says, "You heard me."
It does not take a genius to grasp the meaning behind my father's threat. "You intend to cut me off if I do not comply?"
Papà sounds positively diabolical when he replies, "Sì."
"I call bullshit."
Papà sighs as though I am being the unreasonable one. "I am not bullshitting you. I am gifting you a career that would take most people years to acquire. Believe it or not, I am trying to help you get your act together."
Coolly, I accuse, "This was Mamma's idea, no?"
A suspicious pause dwells on the line. Papà coughs. "I will neither confirm nor deny anything. All you need to know is that Mamma and I are very invested in your well-being, and we hope that you will begin to invest in yourself as well."
"I hear what you are saying, but I think you are being way too harsh by threatening to cut me o—"
Without letting me finish, Papà interjects, "I do not want to hear your excuses. This is not a negotiation. Our minds are made up, and you know Mamma and I are always united in whatever endeavors we take on. We act as one mind, one heart, one soul—"
"I know, I know, I know," I growl, cutting him off.
Even after twenty-some years of marriage, my parents remain ridiculously in love. It is borderline nauseating. No matter how busy my father's schedule may be, he still rushes home to Mamma each night, and Mamma's green eyes light up like a lovesick schoolgirl every time she sees my father.
The same way my green eyes lit up when I purchased my first Maserati and my latest Armani suit.
I do not think I will ever experience a love like theirs.
Thank fuck.
I mutter, "It seems you are determined to bully me into submission.
I can feel the smirk in Papà's voice when he asks, "Is it working?"
Unfortunately, it is working. I have no interest in becoming penniless or homeless. Armani does not pay for itself, you know. Changing my tune like some kind of bipolar trick, I concede with a sigh, "I suppose I could take on Bleekman's position until you find a replacement."
His voice rumbles with approval, "I knew you would make the right decision, Nicco. Get ready to report to work in two weeks' time. You will be heading the Asset Management team as the new Department Manager."
With no hesitation, I proceed to make my demands, "In that case, I expect to be given plenty of extra support to make up for my lack of qualifications."
"You are qualified. You studied Management and Economics at Cambridge, did you not? It is time to put your education to use."
Just to push his buttons, I drawl in lazy tones, "An education is not the same as real-world experience."
Papà counters, "Very well, I will put in a request for a personal assistant who can help make up for your real-world experience."
I frown. "I will need more support than a personal assistant."
"Take it or leave it. No one gets special treatment at Jackson & James. I expect you to work as hard as everyone else in your department."
"But of course," I lie. "I just have one more question."
"Ask."
Again, simply to piss off my father, I challenge, "Can I fire this person if they annoy me?"
He replies in breezy tones, "Get rid of whomever you please. You will have the authority as a department manager. But, above all, learn to do your fucking job. I want results in concrete numbers and profits. Or else."
I prompt, "Or else—what?"
"Or else—you will be fired. Regardless of whether or not you are employed at Jackson & James, your credit cards and bank accounts will be inaccessible by the end of this month. I advise that you plan accordingly."
After dropping this final bombshell, my father has the audacity to hang up on me.
Che cazzo!
I am upset even though I am well aware that Mamma and Papà have never appreciated my easy-come-easy-go views on life. To them, my mindset is nothing more than a series of errors that require redirection. To me, their lectures are like lullabies. They put me to sleep.
My father, in particular, has a love affair with words. He adores listening to himself talk. Far too much, in my opinion.
Your mamma and I have worked very hard to give you this beautiful life...
Papà never fails to drone on and on long after I have checked out of our conversation.
You do not know half of the hell we suffered to secure our blessed circumstances today. Blood was spilled. Lives were lost...
Mamma is not gifted in conversation like Papà. But she worries and nags, nonetheless.
Your papà is right. Do not take our privileges for granted, mijo. There may come a time when it will be up to you to stand against everyone who wishes to strip us of our good fortune...
I suppose my parents' hearts are in the right places, but good intentions do not make them any less infuriating. Papà is using a carrot to keep me on his leash. A carrot that doubles as a baseball bat to the skull. My jaw ticks with displeasure.
But I will play along.
For now.
I know when I have been outplayed. Mamma was not always just a surgeon, you see, and Papà was not always just a businessman. Trust me. They are not the kind of people you want to fuck around with. Their pasts run dark and deep. Do not ask where our money came from. I would have to kill you, and I have no interest in getting blood on my Armani.
I may act like a dumbass from time to time, but I am not stupid. I understand exactly what must be done to get what I want out of life. Good things come to those who wait, and I can be a patient fucker.
Slow and steady wins the race, no?
***
ARIA
Ding!
The moment I receive my supervisor's text, my entire morning goes to shit.
Robert Townsend: Something came up. Cancel your engagements for the next two hours. Let's discuss in my office.
Fuck me.
Fuck him.
Fuck this.
I'm drowning in deadlines right now, and I don't have time for this rubbish. Guess I'll be working overtime tonight. Again.
Blast it.
With a sigh, I cancel my morning meetings like an obedient, little corporate dog and hustle over to Rob's office. On the way, I run into Stephan from Mergers and Acquisitions. He stops me to make small talk, "Morning, Aria. How was your weekend?"
With a sheepish look, I answer, "I may or may not have spent my Saturday in the office."
"Again?"
"Unfortunately."
He waggles his eyebrows. "Learn how to work smarter, sweetheart, not harder."
His jab fails to land. Because his opinion doesn't really matter. The numbers from Mergers and Acquisitions looked downright abysmal last quarter. Wryly, I toss back, "You're right. I should. But revenue increased by 10% in our department since I joined the team. I don't think there's a problem with the way I'm working."
"There's more to life than work. Once in a while, it wouldn't hurt to put on a nice dress and go out with a bloke that fancies you."
I reply with an awkward laugh, "Dating isn't a priority for me. The only man in my life right now is Robert, and he'll own my ass until I make senior."
I've been working as a Junior Financial Analyst in the Asset Management division at Jackson & James for almost a year. Sixty-plus-hour work weeks have become my norm. That's what it fucking takes to shine at one of the most prestigious banks in London.
As if I hadn't spoken, however, Stephan shoots me a flirtatious leer. "All work and no play is no way to live. What if your knight in shining armor has been hiding right under your nose this whole time?"
Uh, I hope he's not referring to himself.
"That would only happen if I was the main character in some romcom," I retort while plotting my exit. "Anyway, it's been lovely catching up, but I'm running a bit late for a meeting, so..."
Stephan's eyes grow wide and apologetic. "Oh, I'm sorry. Don't let me keep you. But if you're free next weekend, I'd love to—"
Flashing him a blinding, megawatt smile, I don't let him finish, "I'll see you around, Stephan. Have a great day."
With a polite nod, I turn away before he can thwart my escape. Once Stephan can no longer see my face, an eye roll instantly replaces my smile.
If knights in shining armor actually existed, I'm sure mine won't be appearing anytime soon. Definitely not on a white horse. He's probably riding a tortoise somewhere. Lost, confused, and refusing to ask for directions.
With the click-click-clicks of my stilettos echoing across gray marble tiles, I pick up my stride.
Why?
Because slow and steady never wins the race.
As far as I know, life stops for no one, and it fucks with everyone. I wish I was more of a romantic than a realist. But I am who I am. I'm a jaded, broken bitch named Aria Yue Senarath. Yue means "moon," and, much like the moon, part of me has always been hidden from the world.
People only see what they want to see.
Pretty sure Stephan sees me as a nice pair of tits with legs whom he'd love to fuck and chuck.
My immigrant parents see me as their pride and joy who, against all odds, outperformed her richer classmates at Hawkins Preparatory Academy with little more than a bit of brains, balls, and brass.
My friends see the baddie who graduated early and with honors from UCLA while double-majoring in Finance and Computer Science.
Robert sees me as one of his most competent new hires.
None of them see who I really am, though. Stephan and Robert are unaware that the reason why I work so hard is to numb myself from shit I'd rather not remember. My parents remain clueless about the hell I survived at Hawkins. My college friends know nothing about how dark my demons have become because of him. For the sake of my sanity, I pretend like their versions of me are the only ones that exist.
Because some secrets should be taken to the grave.
After I knock, Robert summons me into his office. "Come in."
"Morning, sir."
He gestures to one of the black leather armchairs positioned in front of his desk. "Please. Sit down."
I take a seat. "What did you want to discuss with me today?"
He fails to meet my gaze. His bushy gray eyebrows are knitted together as though deep in thought.
Suspicious.
Very suspicious.
"Sir?" I prompt.
At last, he reveals, "Yesterday, I received an interesting request from one of the higher-ups."
My eyes narrow. "Interesting—in a good or bad way?"
He sighs, "Apparently, Alessandro Vitale's son will be replacing Bleekman as one of the new managers in our department."
Alessandro... Vitale?
As in the owner of Jackson & James and its subsidiaries?
Bloody hell.
Robert wasn't kidding when he said this request came from the uppermost echelons. My nerves stiffen with anxiety, but I manage to keep my face devoid of emotion, careful to respond with the utmost tact, "I look forward to having him join our team. Please extend my congratulations."
"You may congratulate him yourself," Robert continues in ominous tones. "Starting next week, you two will be working very closely together."
My eyes widen with confusion and alarm. "I beg your pardon?"
"Mr. Vitale's son will be here on Monday. Someone needs to show him the ropes. He's looking for a personal assistant of sorts who can help him transition into his new role."
Dread sinks in as I suddenly realize where this conversation is headed. I can smell it from a mile away: Nepotism at its finest. If I were to take a stab in the dark, Mr. Vitale's son is likely being handed a position that sits far above his capabilities, which is why he's recruiting a poor, unfortunate soul to be his little bitch. I've known guys like him my whole life. Hawkins was a viper's den full of spoiled, incompetent wankers who never needed to lift a finger to get ahead in life. Bet Vitale's spawn is looking for someone to do all of his heavy lifting while he takes all the credit. And that someone is going to be me.
Awesome.
Just fucking awesome.