8. SQUALO
SQUALO
Inever understood people who owned houses by the sea and still built pools.
Then again, despite how privileged it sounds, I was one of them.Villa Sinclair didn’t have just one pool, but three.
Much as I disliked having them and preferred the sea, I couldn’t deny that I enjoyed slipping into the water for a quick swim.
Today, though, I just sat in front of it.
Lorenzo was probably lying out somewhere with his bare ass in the sun by now, and I’d decided to take the day for myself.
The afternoon sun hung high overhead, baking my skin until it almost smelled scorched, but I didn’t mind.
Even though British blood ran through my veins, growing up in Italy had made my skin resistant to the sun, so I never burned.
The perfect warmth disappeared beneath a sudden patch of shade.
I opened my eyes and found my father standing over me, blocking the sun from my face.
He wore his usual white linen shirt and matching trousers.
As I pushed myself up to sit, I noticed he wasn’t wearing any shoes, which could only mean he’d just arrived home.
He was one of those clean freaks who always took his shoes off at the front door, which meant the maids had to clean the floors three times a day.
“You’re blocking the sun,” I said, squinting up at him.
“Where were you last night?” he asked calmly.
He crossed his arms over his chest, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing the gold Rolex on his wrist. “We waited for you for hours, only for Sofia De Luca to show up on our doorstep, screaming that it was all your fault her son was missing.”
“I don’t know, Dad.” I chuckled, raising a brow. “You’re the one who fucked her, not me.”
His jaw clenched. His eyes widened as the color drained from his face.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, she wasn’t the one you fucked in the library the day before Mom died?” I stood, draping a towel around my neck and gripping each end in my fists. “Or am I confusing her with someone else?”
“Watch your tongue, Oliver,” he said. “I’m still your father, even if you don’t see me as one.”
“Yeah.” I scoffed. “I heard you fired her. Was that your decision or your fiance’s?”
“It had to be done,” he said. “I did it for you. If people started talking, saying you were involved in the disappearances, they would drag your name through the mud.”
“So you figured lying about a stolen yacht would save both our reputations?” I laughed. “Gianni came to you to borrow a yacht, and suddenly every single person on it, including the crew, disappeared.”
“I said no to him, and you know it. It was his decision to take it without permission. That’s called theft in every country, as far as I know.”
“Yeah.” I chuckled. “Sure.”
“You also skipped a few important decisions last night,” he said. He sat down and finished the glass of whiskey that had been waiting on the table, the one I’d poured for myself but never touched.
“And that might be?”
“You’re no longer part of the company,” he said, setting the empty glass down.
Then he stretched out on the sunbed as I turned to face him.
“Since you have no respect for money or for the company I built from nothing for you, I’ll give it to someone who appreciates it instead of throwing it away on cheap prostitutes and alcohol. ”
“Are you saying you’re finally letting me go?” I smiled.
His words didn’t touch me.
“Maybe.” He rolled a piece of ice around his mouth before biting down on it. “Or until you learn some respect.”
“Whatever.” I turned and walked away.
“You have until tonight to leave this house,” he shouted after me. “And don’t come back until you grow some balls, stop behaving like a teenager, and become a man.”
“Good luck with that, Dad.” I kept walking.
“Not just this house, Oliver. Everything we own, including the yachts.” His voice stayed calm as he lay back and closed his eyes. “You’re on your own.”
I knew I’d been pushing my luck with him, especially lately, but he’d done this before. Every time, he was the one begging me to come back.
I wasn’t one of those sons who depended entirely on their father, burning through a fortune on exactly the things he accused me of.
I’d used the allowance he gave me to start my own company, and it had grown across Europe, earning me enough to cut ties with him forever.
Even so, I knew I had to keep a small part of what belonged to them.
My mother had built the company alongside my father.
Somehow, even though I still hadn’t forgiven her for leaving me the way she did, I wanted to carry on her legacy.
She was the brains behind the company. She’d even come up with the idea of partnering with the art academy and funding scholarships for anyone who needed them.
My father, on the other hand, only cared about making money.
After she died, every new idea stopped. He simply held on to what was already there, buying, and preserving what was left.
I knew that was his way of keeping her close after she was gone, but I also knew guilt played a bigger part than he would ever admit.
Somewhere deep down, he believed he was the reason she killed herself.
In the end, I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life carrying a reminder of both of them. I wanted something I could look at and honestly say I’d built it myself.
The first thing I bought with the money my company earned was a yacht. I named her Deep Blue, and tomorrow she was set to sail, with me and the crew on board.
As I stepped inside the house, I spotted Viola, my father’s fiancée, sitting at the bottom of the staircase in a black silk robe.
She was turning a necklace over in her fingers, staring at the chain with its blue hydrangea flower.
Before wiping away her tears, she slipped it into the pocket on the left side of her robe.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
Her green eyes were swollen and red, and her blonde hair was still tousled from sleep.
“No,” I said, brushing past her as I headed upstairs.
“It’s about your mom.”
I stopped. Turning around, I stepped back down the stairs I’d just climbed and pointed a finger at her.
“No,” I shouted. “You have no right to talk about her.”
“I know.” She lowered her gaze.
“No, you don’t.” My jaw tightened. “I know you somehow knew her, and honestly, I don’t give a fuck how. But I do know you chose to fuck my dad and become his new wife. So, hell no. I’m not talking about my own mother with the gold-digging bitch who stole her place.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“I don’t have time for this bullshit.” I threw my hands up and turned away, taking the stairs two at a time. I just wanted to get out of here, and fast.
I reached my bedroom and stormed inside, slamming the door behind me.
My phone lay on the white sheets of the king-size bed, vibrating while I stood there punching the air, trying to push the anger out of my body.
I was always like this whenever someone mentioned her.
My mother used to be everything to me, and now I couldn’t even remember her.
The part that hurt the most was people telling me how much we looked alike. I never knew what to say, because how was I supposed to know what I looked like compared to someone I couldn’t remember?
Some memories came back in dreams. Others came when I caught the smell of certain food or stood by the sea. But they felt more like dreams than memories, disconnected from anything I could truly call my own.
It was funny how the people we loved the most faded with time, while the faces we desperately wanted to forget found their way back when we least expected them.
Ever since the night I found her, I remembered her cold skin. I remembered the note she left. I remembered the way her body stood there, stiff and still.
But I couldn’t remember her face. No matter how hard I tried, my mind had carved it out, leaving nothing behind.
My phone vibrated again.
I snatched it off the bed, flipped it open, and barked, “What?”
“Sir,” the man on the other end said, “we need to go through the candidates for the maid position.”
It was George. My right-hand man. Short, bald, thick around the middle, with a mustache and goatee that, frankly, belonged anywhere but on his head.
He looked harmless until he smiled, and even then, only to people who didn’t know him.
He loved three things with religious devotion: women, food, and arguing about both.
“George, with all due respect, now’s not the time,” I said through gritted teeth.
“If we want to sail tomorrow morning, it is,” he cut me off.
“Do you like any of the candidates? Just hire the ones you think are the best. I don’t need the details, please.” I rolled my eyes and let out a slow breath.
“Very well, Sir. As you wish.”
I hung up before I did something stupid and took my anger out on the poor bastard who’d walked straight into the middle of the crossfire.
I lay down, exhaled, rubbed my palms over my face twice, then forced myself back to my feet.
If I truly wasn’t coming back, I had years of my life to fit into two suitcases.
Dragging my feet across the wooden floor, I made my way to the wardrobe and pulled the door open.
Most of my clothes were scattered across the different estates, and this closet hadn’t been opened in months.
Even so, it was the one I hated opening the most. The top shelf had memories I’d spent years trying to bury.
The moment the door swung open, a paper box slipped from the shelf and struck me on the head.
The lid flew off. Letters, photographs, and little souvenirs spilled across the floor, skittering over the wood. Among them was a letter from Gabriella, dated 1996.
My jaw tightened as I crouched down and picked it up.
It was still sealed. I never read it.
I didn’t have to, because I already knew what she wanted to say.