The Italian

“I’m picking them up from the airport at 8:10 tonight.”

Them? Who did he go with?

“Who went with him today?” I ask.

“Maso and Sophia. They met others down there. I believe they had meetings all day.”

Sophia.

What the hell? Enrico spent the day with fucking Sophia?

I clench my jaw and glare out of the window. Lorenzo’s eyes flicker to me in the rearview mirror, as if he’s suddenly realizing that he maybe shouldn’t have told me that. “Sophia is the general manager of that division in Sicily,” he adds.

“I’m well aware of that,” I reply, annoyed by my petty jealousy. And even more annoyed that Lorenzo can see it upset me.

For God’s sake, Olivia, can’t you at least act cool?

I scroll aimlessly through my phone, and my mind goes back to the police who visited me today looking for Franco. Where is Franco?

I download the Tinder app again and try to find his profile. I search his name and find him, although he’s changed his profile pic since I last looked.

Hmm, okay.

I scroll through the info, but I can’t see where it shows when he was last active.

Can I even see that info in here? I click on every damn button I can find with no clue as to when he was on last. Stupid, useless app. I click out of it in disgust and go back to staring out of the window.

My mind goes to that night and how aggressive Franco was to Enrico—how he kept telling him to fuck off, and then how Enrico punched him.

Oh, jeez, this is all one big mess.

But I do know for certain that Rico has no idea where Franco is, either. He has a lot bigger things on his plate than that fool.

He’s with Sophia… right now.

Stop it, they work together.

The annoying little voice from my subconscious whispers… yeah, and they fuck.

Gah!

I’m so insecure about her, I can’t stand it.

She’s a prostitute. She’ll be well experienced in pleasing men.

If he wanted her, he would be with her, I remind myself.

I pull my cardigan around myself, lean back, and close my eyes. I’m having a really shitty day today. I’m going to sleep to try and forget that my boyfriend may or may not be in the Italian mafia, and that he may or may not have done something to a weirdo date of mine… and he may or may not be fucking his private whorebag general manager on a desk in Sicily right now.

Who, I might add, is fucking Italian—something I will never be, no matter how hard I try.

Why can’t he just be a normal policeman in Roma? An average broke man with a motorbike and no ex-girlfriends? I would love him just the same… maybe even more.

But he has an entourage, houses, staff, questionable businesses, and beautiful whores who work for him.

It’s damn annoying.

“How long till we get there, Lorenzo” I ask.