Playboy Billionaire

ANTONIO

This morning I woke up with a throbbing headache, a pain in my chest like I’d been stabbed with a knife, and the lingering self-deprecation from last night's explosive, very public fight with Stella. The silence of the house and the empty kitchen reminds me she’s gone. Reminds me that last night I got home too late because she’d already packed her things and was headed back to Malibu.

I’ve come to the office for the past few days. Talking with Jack about new leads while filing paperwork for our latest business venture that I’ve barely been a part of. Mostly I’ve been in and out around town, chasing leads with Jack at all hours of the day. It’s a miracle I’m still doing well in school. It’s probably the only thing I’m doing well at this point.

Vince approached me about Stella the other day. After news broke about our fight at the premiere, he’s kept a close eye on me. I feel the restraint they’re refastening around my neck, and I loathe it. I’ve made numerous attempts to apologize to Stella, called her a billion times, texted her to no avail, and even wanted to drive to her house, but Brandt suggested otherwise when I reached out to him.

Fuck me. It’s pathetic that I’ve had to make so many attempts to reach out to Stella when her friend started the fight. Then again, those fucking random chicks surrounding me didn’t help either. Fuck.

It’s a bit of a mess if that isn’t as obvious as an infected finger. I’m trying not to think about it, but everything I do reminds me that something is off. Even being in an empty house has been hard. But I’ve restrained myself from going out to any clubs or bars. Not because I’ve turned into some saint, but because when I drink to forget, all it does is make me remember things I don’t want to think about.

Then there’s the fact that even being around other women makes me only think of Stella, so I’m sorta fucked in every way possible except the way I want to be. It’s a catatonic type of fucked where, regardless of what I do, my problems follow me, and I can’t seem to escape them even when I’m actively working to forget.

I’m headed home at the moment. I drove myself to work today because I wanted some control. The sun is setting over the tops of the houses as I turn into my neighborhood.

I park the car, head inside, and go straight to the kitchen for a protein shake. I can’t cook, and now that Alk has gone back with Stella, I really can’t be bothered to deal with figuring out dinner. So, protein shakes it is. As I close the fridge door, a shadow rises in the dark on the other side. I jump back and grab a knife from the knife block before switching on the lights.

“Hello.” A tall man with papery skin, sunken-in beady eyes, sparse black hair barely covering his balding head, and a pistol strapped to his belt that he has one hand on is standing in front of me.

“Who the fuck are you?” I stand tall, knife positioned to stab the motherfucker if he gets any closer.

“Put the knife down.” His thick Russian accent does not make me want to put the knife down, but he’s got a gun, and I would like to continue living, though my life is abysmal at the moment. I place the knife close to me on top of the counter, and he lets go of his gun to extend his hand to me. I shake it quickly, then lean back against the counter.

“Nice home.” He looks around, expressionless.

“Thanks.” I study him as he takes a seat at the dining table.

“Won’t you come sit?” He invites me to my table. As I walk, I reach a hand in my pocket to text Vince, hoping I can pull up our messages without looking. I think I type, “SOS, Russians.” And send it. I hope so. Why did I give security off tonight? And why did they listen?

“Tell me, why have you been looking for me?”

“Sorry, this couldn’t have just been a phone call?” I realize this is a mistake to say, but it’s already come out, and he’s giving me a death glare, then suddenly, bursts out in laughter. I watch as he calms down and wait until he’s quieted before explaining.

“You’re in business with a very wanted man and equally hard to find.” A smirk grows on his face, and he tilts his chin so that shadows cast over it like an evil grin.

“Fine.”

“What?” He rolls his eyes with a sigh.

“Agent Fine,” I don’t say something fast enough, so he grows impatient. “That is who you are after, correct?”

“Yes.” I narrow my eyes and wait for him to say something, but he is tracing the lines on my wood table with his thumb. “I didn’t catch your name,” I state, and he looks up.

“Vladimir Ivankov, Underboss.”

“That name comes with the title or….” Why the fuck am I joking at a time like this? He cackles and pounds a fist on the table. Somehow, it makes my attempt to joke less funny.

“You are good.” He wags a finger at me. “Look, I’m here because I want to extend an invitation. We own a vacation home in Maui. The boss will be there tomorrow and wants to hold a meeting with you over the weekend.”

“I need to know where Agent Fine is located, so we can— I can chat with him.” He raises a brow at my reaction.

“I will ensure Agent Fine is present.”

“Well, I’ll have to talk to the family about this venture.”

“Of course. You have a day to respond.” he stands, walks to the door, and turns around right before leaving.

“There will be consequences if you fail to accept our invitation. Goodnight, Mr. San Giovanni.” He smiles like he’s saying something nice, but the threatening undertone of his words makes me sick. Why the fuck could he not have vested Vince? And how the fuck do the Russians know where I live?