Chapter 1 #7
He reaches over and pats my head. "My mom. She wanted proof that I actually took you out and didn't just ditch you for a poker night."
I stare at him. "Oh. Hilarious. Ha."
He grins. "You got scared. You thought I was gonna jerk off to you."
I want to disappear.
"Anyway," he adds, stepping back, "please don't get drunk. I'm not dragging you out of here. Have fun, Ravioli."
Two hours later
I'm sitting on a random chair, looking like a poor lost child someone forgot to pick up.
I must look pathetic. Just… abandoned vibes. I even tried calling Sophia, but she's out with her friends, apparently.
So now it's just me, myself, and this Malibu in my hand. At least it tastes good.
It makes me feel silly. The place itself is actually nice. Almost distracts me from how awkward I am.
There are so many flashing lights that I'm one strobe away from developing epilepsy on the spot.
But the vibe… yeah. It's not terrible.
Then finally, something decent plays. Poison Lips by Vitalic. Bless whoever picked that. After hours of straight-up noise pollution, this is the first song that's actually good.
"Rava?" I turn.
Carla. Dario. Holy shit.
It's like seeing ghosts from a past life. My past life.
We were classmates back in elementary and middle school, literally the only two kids I ever actually got along with.
Then we switched schools, drifted apart, life happened… and that was that.
I think my mouth actually drops open because Carla just laughs and grabs my arm like no time has passed. She has glitter on her cheeks and a drink in hand.
"Oh my god, it is you," she says, wide-eyed and beaming. "You look insane, Rava. Like—insanely good."
Dario nods. Carla looks exactly the same. I don't know how she pulled that off. Same face, same blond hair, same energy. Same everything.
Dario, though… yeah, he changed. A lot.
He's taller now, relaxed, with messy dark curls falling over his forehead, a cigarette half-lit.
Back then he was the biggest anti-smoking warrior I'd ever met, lectured everyone, threw fits if someone lit a cigarette near him.
And now? He's standing there proudly holding one.
Life is insane.
He gives me that same cocky smirk he used to have in gym class. "What the hell, man. You grew up hot. This isn't fair."
I feel my face heat up instantly.
It's strange seeing them again, especially Dario. I haven't seen him since… well.
Since I was going through that identity crisis I never admitted to anyone. He asked me out once, back then. A real date. Just the two of us. I freaked out. I didn't say yes.
Didn't say no either. I was too young. Too confused.
Too scared of what a yes might mean.
So I just disappeared. And now he's in front of me again. I duck my head, waving a hand like that will make the compliments go away.
"Okay, no—shut up," I mutter, half-laughing. "I look like I got lost in the club and just gave up."
"You look like you belong here," Carla says, eyes scanning me. "Seriously. You glow. What are you even doing here all alone?"
I laugh under my breath. "Oh, you're not gonna believe it."
I tilt my head toward Gio.
He's cornered, shirt still unbuttoned halfway down his chest, his silver chain catching the light every time he moves.
He's…devoured, by at least three people. Two guys, one girl. Carla's eyes go huge. "You came because you want Gio?!"
"No!" I shout immediately. "No. Of course not. We just came together. That's it. Literally it."
I look back at him. His lips are on a shot glass now. He downs it, or at least I think that's what he's doing, but he doesn't swallow. He turns. Stops behind some guy.
Slides a hand around the guy's neck, fingers pressing just enough to make him lean back into him. He grabs the guy's jaw, tilts his head back, and he slowly pours the shot straight into the guy's mouth.
The guy looks happy too, swallows like he's starving for it. And Gio doesn't stop. He leans in, bites the guy's lower lip, and kisses him deep.
It's not even sensual. It's absolutely raw.
Watching it feels illegal.
"Jesus. Is he—? Is this normal?!" I ask.
Dario leans in, sipping something neon green. "Oh dude, this is Gio on a leash. You should've seen him last month. I swear everyone gets a chance, except for us."
"What?"
Carla chokes on her drink, laughing. "Oh, tell him, Dario." Dario groans. "I asked him out too. One time."
I turn to him. "You wanted him?! Are you insane?"
"What? He was hot and I was horny!" he mutters.
Carla grins. "Gio shut him down with one sentence."
Dario mimics Gio's deep voice. "You look like someone who apologizes for moaning too much..."
I lose it. "What the actual—? He said that?"
"Verbatim," Carla nods. "And then he left with a bartender and a DJ. At the same time. Who knows what they did."
I stare back toward Gio.
His hand is resting on someone's waist while he whispers something into another person's ear. There's something magnetic about the way he moves, but not in a good way, if that even makes sense.
He's the kind of person who doesn't just walk into a room, he rewrites the temperature. I sip my drink, trying not to let the heat creep up my neck. "So… this is just him?" I ask, casual as I can manage.
"Oh, babe," Carla says, "you haven't even heard the good stuff yet."
"Like what?"
Dario smirks. "He tagged his name on a cop car. Middle of the day. I don't know how he got away with that."
"He what?"
"Jumped a flight of stairs. Landed clean. Took off his helmet and bowed to the cops when they caught up with him at a red light ten minutes later. They couldn't even be mad."
Carla nods. "And there was the time he rode his bike into a hotel lobby because someone dared him to. You never know if tonight's the night you'll watch him fly too close to the sun."
"And somehow not fucking burn," Dario adds.
I glance back at Gio. He meets my eyes, just for a second, and smirks.
I get it now. The whole performance thing.
Always daring someone to stop him. It isn't just chaos for fun.
It's classic defense. Push the world before it pushes you.
It's control, in his own twisted way. He breaks rules because it's the only thing no one can take from him.
He probably thinks that if he sets the fire, he can't get burned. I've read about people like him, but this is the first time I've seen it up close.
7) To The Golden Boy
Gio
I don't even bother tying my tie properly. It's hanging loose around my neck like a peace treaty I never signed.
And I don't give a fuck about it.
Judging by the way Rava looked at me when I walked in, I think he took it personally. Good.
The meeting hasn't started yet. Everyone's still sipping espresso, pretending to like each other.
I can feel angry faces on me. Rava looks like he slept on a business plan. His hair is perfect. His sleeves are rolled exactly once. No more, no less.
I slide into the seat across from him. I lean back. He doesn't look at me.
Someone, I think it's his uncle, looks at me. "So, Gio, how's the alliance going? You two learning to play nice?"
I lean forward a little, resting my elbows on the table. "We're surviving it, sir. We manage to stay in the same room without flipping tables. That's step one, isn't it?"
Soft laughter. Then Rava's father speaks.
Ugh. "Well, survival's a strong word. But I suppose when your life's more speed than structure, staying upright must feel like an accomplishment." He chuckles at his own joke.
Son of a bitch. I don't laugh.
I turn my head slowly, the grin still there but colder now.
My eyes settle on him. "Charles," I say, "you speak with the confidence of a man who thinks I don't remember."
The smile freezes on his face. I tilt my head just slightly, smiling now.
"I do. So don't sit there and pretend you're some moral authority." Heavy fucking silence.
You can feel people stop breathing for a second.
I lean back in my chair, relaxed. "Don't worry though," I add lightly. "I'm here to work. Not to settle debts."
Rava's mother intervenes. "Let's move forward, shall we?" They start the actual meeting. Talk turns to expansion, new properties across Europe, all about fresh experiences, elegance, blah blah blah.
I zone out five minutes in. My pen spins between my fingers, my ankle bouncing under the table.
Rava keeps nodding and smiling once in a while.
I stretch my legs just enough to nudge his under the table. He flinches. Doesn't look at me.
So I lean forward and whisper, "Bet you rehearsed your nod for this meeting."
He turns his head slightly. "Grow up."
"But then who would keep you awake?"
He doesn't answer. So I sit back.
…
Rava's in full presentation mode now.
He's actually good at this blah blah blah thing. I hate it, because he doesn't even notice how everyone hangs on his every sentence. "We need a stable model," he's saying. "Quality control. We need... predictability."
Predictability. Cute.
I yawn. Loudly. He ignores me.
But his left hand, the one holding the clicker, grips tighter. I look at his profile and think about how that word doesn't suit him at all.
He's a walking contradiction.
Predictable is the last thing he is.
"But predictable doesn't always mean good," I say, mostly because I'm bored and also because I like poking him. "Sometimes it just means you're playing it safe."
Everyone freezes a little, probably because they know what happens when I open my mouth. And they usually don't like it. Well. They never like it. But I'm used to it. And they will have to get used to it too, since they dragged me in here.
Rava turns his head toward me with that please-don't-start look. "Safe keeps the business running," he fires back. "People want to know what they're getting."
"Or maybe people want something they've never had before," I say. "Something that actually makes them look up."
He clenches the clicker in his hand again.
Poor thing is pissed.
"We can't rely on 'something different' every time," he says.
"We need consistency, Giovanni."