2. Fashionista
CHAPTER 2
FASHIONISTA
S erena - One Month Earlier
Hopping off the tram at The Duomo , I throw the driver a wink and race across the street to the piazza . The towering spires of the grand gothic cathedral spiral up to the cloudless sky, overlooking a crowded square filled with pesky tourists and peskier pigeons. The damned rats with wings followed me all the way from Manhattan. Ignoring the flying pests and countless tourists snapping photos in front of the white church’s jagged spiked peaks, my footsteps quicken. It’s a perfect summer evening, which means aperitivo , or the typical Milanese happy hour at my favorite rooftop bar with sprawling views of the historic site.
Strutting through Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, one of the world’s oldest shopping malls, I pause beneath the glass-vaulted dome to peek through the window of Prada. I’ve had my eye on a cross-shoulder bag that would be perfect for running around the city for weeks now. Once I get my next paycheck, it’s mine. After living in Milano for two months now, I’ve managed to save up a little bit of money to fund my extravagant lifestyle. Between epic nights out and my measly internship salary, it’s been a struggle, but I prefer it a hundred times over dipping into my trust fund.
At twenty-two, Papà handed over my share of the Valentino family fortune and it’s a shit ton of money. There are definite perks to the only child thing, but all that money also comes with strings. Which was why I leapt at the chance to get a job in fashion and make my own mark without having to rely on Daddy’s fortune.
“I see you eye-fucking that Prada, girl. What are you waiting for, just make your move.” Santi strolls up, looking fabulous as always in frayed D&G jeans and a tight leopard-print button down. He bends down to offer me the traditional Italian double-cheeked kiss before joining me beside the window. Santiago and I met the first day I started at Dolce & Gabbana and have been inseparable ever since. We’re the most promising fashion design interns according to Bianca, our boss.
“Just a couple more weeks and I’ll be strutting around Via Montenapoleone rubbing shoulders with all the fashionistas with that bad girl.”
“Aren’t you filthy rich, Serena? Why the unnecessary restraint?” His dark brow arches, amber flecks illuminating his warm hazel eyes.
“I’m not filthy rich, my family is. And I’m trying to prove to my dad that I can get along just fine without him or his money.”
“What a waste.” He smirks before swinging his arm around my shoulder. “If I came from the kind of money that you do, I would be living it up here.”
“I think we’re doing just fine, don’t you? I didn’t see you complaining the other night when I got us into Armani Privé with a private table.” The elegant club is a staple in Milano, designed by the iconic Giorgio Armani himself. Luckily, I made friends with the bouncer my first week here and have been enjoying free admission ever since.
“Your fuck buddy bouncer got us into the club.”
“Semantics.” I shrug as I lead us across the intricate tile mosaics of the galleria. Dmitri has proven invaluable over the past two months, and he’s a decent lay, so it’s a win-win really.
Tucked between Savini Café and Prada is a secret staircase that leads to a quaint rooftop bar. Only the locals know of its existence, and it’s become one of my favorite summer happy hour spots.
Once we reach the fourth floor, Santi opens the graffitied door which leads to the open-air terrazzo . Shimmering lights are hung across graceful arcs, setting the spires of the grand Duomo alight in an ethereal glow. I draw in a breath as I take it all in. Even though I come here at least once a week, it’s still a breathtaking sight.
The cute hostess greets us with a smile before motioning for us to seat ourselves. There are only about a dozen tables across the rooftop and more than half are already full. I weave my way to the edge of the terrazzo which overlooks the piazza below and flop onto the wrought iron chair.
“Damn, do I need a drink.”
“Same, girl. The usual?” He tosses his head of light brown curls back, tucking a few wayward locks behind his aviators.
“Of course. I was drinking Aperol Spritz long before it became a thing.”
The waiter appears, flashing a smile, and a tumble of dark hair falls over his brow. He looks oddly familiar. I’m fairly certain I hooked up with him a few weeks ago after an all-nighter at Hollywood, another famous club in Milano teeming with celebrities and amazing parties.
“ Due Aperol Spritz,” says Santi in his best Italian accent, holding up two fingers.
A few more months and he’ll sound like a local. His adoptive mom was Puerto Rican, so having arrived already speaking Spanish definitely gave him an edge over the other interns. Still, I’m impressed by how good he’s gotten all the same. I was lucky enough to have been taught Italian by Papà and Nonna as a child. My grandma was adamant I learned at a young age, just like all of us Valentino and Rossi cousins. We may not all speak it often, but we know more than enough to get by, not to mention all the good curses.
When the waiter saunters away, Santi turns his mischievous gaze on me. “He’s gorgeous, and he looked like he wanted to fuck you.”
“Been there, done that.”
“Seriously? Are there any hot, single men in Milano you’ve yet to screw?”
“Yes, you.” I offer him a wink, and his head falls back as he cackles. With deep mocha skin and a model-like physique, my friend is beyond good looking. He’s tall with lean muscles, and a heart-stopping smile that has both women and men swooning at the sight of his Afro-Latino ass.
“Trust me, if I were into pussy, there would be nothing to keep me away, girl.”
“Oh, I know. Not only am I gorgeous, smart and funny, I’m also fantastic in bed.”
His cackles only get louder, showcasing his blindingly white, perfect teeth. “I bet you are.” He finally straightens and takes a sip of water as the fit subsides.
The waiter returns just in time with our bubbly Aperol Spritzes. After placing Santi’s bright orange drink down, he leans in as he delivers mine. “ Ciao, Serena, tutto bene ?”
“ Si, grazie , all good.” For the life of me, I can’t remember his name and he’s not wearing a nametag. I glance down at the napkin, trying to avoid his questioning gaze, and a scrawled phone number catches my eye. No name though.
“Call me sometime. I’d like to take you on a date. I had fun the other night.”
I stare up at him, slack-jawed for a long moment before he shoots me a wink and saunters away.
A low whistle purses Santi’s lips, and I jab my elbow into his side. “Don’t start.”
“What? He likes you… why don’t you give the man a chance?”
“I don’t date, I don’t do relationships. I already told you.”
“But why?” He drags the last word out for a long whiny moment.
“I don’t know. It’s just not in me.” My shoulders slowly lift. “Actually, none of my best friends back home do.”
“Oh, you mean the notorious cousin crew?” He grins like he’s actually met the rest of my family. What I haven’t told him yet is that they’re coming to visit in a few days. It’s Alessandro and Alessia’s birthdays so they decided to make a trip of it and the whole crew is meeting up. I’m weirdly protective about my relationship with my cousins, and I don’t like to share them. I fully realize how insane that sounds, but as the oldest, being the protector has always been my role. Even though the twins are barely a year younger than me, I’ve always considered myself the mother hen. Which is weird because I don’t have a maternal bone in my body. I’m pretty sure I don’t even want kids.
“Actually, they’re coming to visit on Friday.”
“Your cousins, all the way from Manhattan?” His dark brow lifts.
“Well, Bella is still interning in Rome, but yeah, the rest are flying in on the jet from home.”
“On the jet? Of course they are.” A hint of hurt flashes across his expressive irises.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just wanted to keep them all to myself while they’re here, I guess. I haven’t seen them in months and?—”
He raises a dismissive hand. “Nah, I get it, it’s fine. They’re you’re family.”
But he still looks genuinely hurt. And now I feel like a shitty friend. He’s the one person I’ve really connected with since I moved here, and I don’t want to jeopardize our friendship.
“We’ll all go out one night, okay? Bella is only here for two nights because she has to get back to her medical internship in Rome so let’s do an aperitivo on Friday.”
“I’m not sure if I can make it, but I’ll let you know.” He picks up his glass and takes a long pull from the straw.
An uncomfortable silence lingers over the table, and now I just wish I could take it all back. Why didn’t I just tell him sooner?
I gulp down my drink, then scoot my chair back, the metal legs scraping against the terracotta tile. “Bathroom break, be right back, then we can plan for Friday, okay?”
He nods, a half-smile lifting the corner of his lip.
Clutching my purse under my arm, I scoot around the crowded rooftop, a pang of regret weighing me down. I’m such an idiot. Santi didn’t grow up with a big, loving, albeit sometimes dysfunctional family like I did. He was raised by his adoptive single mom who did the best she could to keep a roof over their heads in the super expensive L.A. area.
As I trudge down the long, quiet corridor to the bathroom, I resolve to make sure he’s included in all the cousin events while they’re in town. I’m so preoccupied I must pass the restrooms all together because I end up in some maintenance hallway with the steady thrum of an HVAC unit vibrating the narrow space. Spinning around, I return in the direction I came from and nearly crash into a wall of muscles behind a black trench coat. Piercing midnight eyes peer down at me through an ornate Venetian mask.
“ Scusi .” The voice is low and guttural and has the hair on the back of my neck rising. His hands come up, but before he can make contact with my bare skin, I duck under his arm and race by.
Glancing over my shoulder as I jog down the hallway in my heels, I find the stranger standing perfectly still just where I left him, dark eyes glaring through that creepy mask fixed in my direction.
What the actual hell?