Playboy Billionaire

ANTONIO

I’ll admit, when I ended my conversation with my brother and Pops, I was boiling with anger. Taking a cold shower was my only option, but even that didn’t bring my heart to a normal rate. It’s fucking ridiculous, the whole shit show I have to play along with to get something that should be my birthright in the first place. Don’t they know how capable I am?

Sure, I party, like to fuck gorgeous women in precarious situations, and maybe I enjoy the attention a little too much. Screw me for having needs. I step out of the shower and continue to win arguments in my head to make up for the one I lost today. If only everyone stopped expecting so much from me, I wouldn’t have anyone to disappoint.

That’s why I enjoyed being at Harvard. No one really knew me or had any expectations of me except what I showed them. Now I’m stuck back in LA. I hate LA. Don’t think I’ve ever allowed myself to hate it before. Still, given the circumstances, I think it’s appropriate to finally admit it.

Every terrible memory of my childhood is here. I can’t go down any street without a memory haunting me, running past me like a projection of my innermost subconscious thoughts. At least I get to have my own place; Vince was nice enough to give me that option.

The fact that I have to go to him to get this option is probably the most annoying thing of all. He acts just like Pops, but it’s worse because I still need an older brother. Carlito always understood me. Yeah, he was fucked in the head, I know. But at least he cared enough to trust me and treat me with respect. That’s why I only let him call me Tony. It was our thing. Even if it didn’t make sense to anyone else, I felt safe with Carlito.

Even thinking about him makes my stomach hurt and my eyes burn. I want to forget about the past, but he’s still very much in it. It’s the only connection I still have to him. I shove my hands through my wet curls, already beginning to get frizzy. Product is an immediate necessity after getting out of the shower.

I see on the clock that it’s already 7 o’clock.

I hurry and select my suit. It's a red velvet Gucci— a statement, but I hear my date likes to shop, so I might as well dress to impress. Underneath, I choose a simple white Armani button-up with black buttons. The shoes are edgy black boots with a silver stud. I think they’re from The Project or something. Last winter, I saw them on the runway at a Miu Miu show and thought they were cool. Tito and Romeo swing by my room as I button up the last button on my shirt.

“Dressing to impress?” They both smirk in unison, teasing me about my choice of clothing. It’s almost impressive.

“Shut up.” I straighten my back, glancing at them through the mirror.

“I would say you look good, but I don’t wanna boost your already inflated ego.” Romeo taps the door frame before sauntering away. Asshole. He thinks he’s better than the rest of us boys because he doesn’t fuck around.

Tito looks at me for a moment and studies me up and down.

“I think it’s a good choice, brother.” He smiles, and I let out a chuckle. He’s very sincere and always has been gravely serious. A tech guy too. Super smart, pretty eccentric sense of fashion, so I don’t necessarily take his compliment as anything but him wanting to make me feel more at ease about this mess.

“Thanks, bud.” I nod, walking to the door. He slaps my back as we walk to the foyer while he discusses some new thing he’s inventing. I lost track of what he was saying after he used one too many big words that sounded like another language. My security is at the front door, ready to usher me out.

“Have fun.” Tito sing-songs as he waves the group of us out.

“Not likely.” I mock his melody back to him as I shut the front door.

The air is cold like it usually is here at nighttime. Love that desert living. Not really. Did I mention I hate LA?

We hop in the car, and I think the whole drive there, though I try not to. I remember talking to Vince about this girl last year. From what I remember, she isn’t the hottest in the bunch. (When you have a bunch to choose from, come back to me; otherwise, don’t judge.) I avoid looking at magazines, or I’d probably see her in the news somewhere. She’s apparently not shy about being photographed and runs with a crowd of popular famous people.

I didn’t realize we had already arrived because I was absentmindedly thinking about the model that I’d heard Stella’s name thrown around with. I believe they are close. Anyway, the model is fucking gloriously hot, like next-level shit. She could play a goddess in a movie, and I’d convert to whatever religion she was pushing.

I slip out of the car and into the back door of the restaurant. I come here more often than I should, but I know how to treat a woman. And they know how to rack up money on my tab. I choose the back booth, a classic seat. Helps my security see the whole restaurant and me escape into the booth to do what I please with whoever I want.

I doubt tonight will go like that, though. We’ll be watched by every person in the restaurant, even if they don’t explicitly look our way. Maybe I’m the son of the most known Mafia leader in the world, but she has a name of her own. She’s mysterious, someone others wish they could be, want to know, or both.

She’s probably a compliant mafia girl; most of them are. Their families are brought up to raise strong boys and delicate girls. It’s just the way it is. I’m not saying it’s right; all I’m saying is she seems to fit the bill.

A couple of minutes goes by, and I’m already too sober, so I order a whiskey neat, double, and tap my fingers nervously. Why the fuck am I nervous? I don’t know, but it’s horrendously embarrassing. When the drink arrives, I down it like a shot. It’s not so bad once you’ve done it every day for the past few months.

Before long, I’ve ordered another double and a shot of vodka (also a poor choice. I’m not a fan of vodka, so I don’t know why I even ordered it.).

I’m pretty drunk. Okay, super drunk when she arrives. But not drunk enough to miss that feeling of my heart dropping to my stomach when I see her. Holy hell, she’s hot. Scratch that model comment I made earlier; this woman is dangerously attractive. Though everything is spinning, I stand on my feet for her, endeavor to act like a gentleman, and remember my manners.

I think I let slip that she smells amazing or something as I greet her. It’s cute that she seems flustered, telling me the name and maker as if I haven’t smelled it before on a handful of other women. She wears it better, I don’t know what it is, but she does.

I barely decipher the words coming from my mouth as we speak because most of the evening, I’m looking at her fucking remarkable lips. They are without fault. Or how the colors in her eyes change when she tilts them in different ways in the light. She’s a work of art. I don’t know what Vince was talking about, her being just okay. She’s hotter than Jess. Not that it would matter if I found Jess hot because she’s Vince’s, and that’s all I’ll say about that.

Anyway, Stella’s stunning and honestly not what I expected personality-wise either. She’s quick-witted, slightly mean, but in an uppity way that makes you want to know what she’s thinking about. She speaks her mind. I play that tone back to her, and I admit it might make me come off as a dick at first, but I’m playing it cool.

So, I’m staring at her. Hoping I might get to fuck her tonight when she says something that takes me off guard.