The Italian

“I do.”

I steel myself. “I would like to see Enrico Ferrara, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I need to see him.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ferrara only sees pre-booked appointments.”

“But is he in his office today?”

“I believe so. You will need to call ahead for a future appointment.”

“Call him,” I snap rudely. She stares at me. “You call him and tell him that Olivia Reynolds is here to see him.”

She frowns and exchanges a glance with the other secretary. Then she glances over my shoulder at the security guard who is suddenly behind me, eavesdropping.

“I’m sorry—” the secretary begins.

“I’m not leaving until you call him.”

She raises her brows and then picks up her phone. She waits as it rings.

“Ciao, c’è una donna qui che vuole essere presentata al Sig. Ferrara, dice che lo conosce, Olivia Reynolds.” Translation: Hello, we have a woman down here who wants to be announced to Mr. Ferrara, she says she knows him. Olivia Reynolds.

I twist my fingers nervously in front of me. My heart is racing, slamming so hard into my chest that I’m nearly breathless.

“Si, va bene.” Translation: Yes, okay.

“Miss Reynolds, can you turn and face the security camera, please?” She gestures to a camera at the side of us, mounted on the wall.

“Are you serious?” I frown.

“Very.”

I exhale and turn toward the camera, giving it my best fuck you look. Don’t mess with me, asshole. I’ll smash your fucking camera over your head in a minute. If he doesn’t let me in, I’m going postal and wrecking something.

“Yes, sir.” She hangs up and comes back to me, unimpressed. “Junco will escort you up to Mr. Ferrara’s office now.”

“I can go by myself.”

“Nobody enters the building unescorted.” She glares at me. “You have an eight-minute appointment.”

I glare right back. “I’ll only need two.”

The security guard approaches us. “This way.” He leads me over to the elevator, and I get in behind him. He stays solemn and stares straight ahead. With every floor we go up, I feel a little crazier.

He leaves me in a prison.

He calls me a Tinder whore.

He didn’t want me.

Well, fuck him.

The elevator doors open, and I step out like I’m the Devil himself.

Mr. Ferrara messed with the wrong girl.