The Italian

“No, but it is what it is.” I shrug. “I can’t change it.”

He raises his eyebrows as he stares at me and I have no idea what he’s thinking. He opens the door and my eyes widen at what I see. Holy shit.

“Are you serious?” I whisper as my eyes fly around the space.

This isn’t money. This is over the fucking top luxury. It’s like a palace, only way better. Above us are gilded gold and hand painted ceilings. The floors are covered in huge Persian rugs, contrasting with gorgeous, dark wood antique furniture. The colors are rich and exotic—almost historical.

It looks like the Vatican or some shit. “You live here?” I squeak.

He smiles at my reaction and walks in. He carelessly chucks his keys onto the counter, as if it’s just a normal side table and not some two-thousand-year-old artefact.

“Yes.” He puts his hands onto his hips as he looks around, unimpressed.

“Jeez.” I feel the blood drain from my face.

“I don’t notice it. I’ve grown up in homes like this, so it has no…” He pauses for a moment. “It’s my normal. It’s just a house. I would prefer modern furnishings, but this is a family property, so I make do.”

“Make do?” I scoff. “Enrico, this is not making do. This is—”

“What?”

I stop myself before I say something insulting. Spoilt brat comes to mind. “Your grandfather owns this?”

He takes my hand and leads me through the apartment. “Yes.”

“What does he do?”

“He owns multiple businesses—my father, too.”

“Oh.” I frown as I look around.

There’s a huge living area that looks like something out of a movie. It’s filled with deep red velvet couches, and there are antiques everywhere. The artwork alone is incredible. It’s all very stuffy. We pass through a formal dining room, and I count the chairs at the huge table. Twenty! There are twenty fucking chairs at the table.

“What kind of businesses?” I ask. Does he own Amazon or some shit?

“He manufactures sports cars. He owns a football team. He owns a lot of properties. He has many different avenues of income.”

The kitchen is made of black marble with a huge island counter in the middle. We walk down the hall and into another living room. It’s a little less formal but still out of this world. We pass a gymnasium, five bedrooms, and I’ve lost count of all the bathrooms.

I feel ill.

Thank God he isn’t coming to my shitty one-bedroom apartment in Sydney. If only he knew what a pauper he was sleeping with, he’d probably run for the hills. It took me a year just to save for this trip. I really should be cleaning his fucking bathroom.

“And this is my bedroom.” He opens a door at the end of the hall, and I smile in relief.

This is more like it.

It’s modern in here. There’s a large king-sized bed covered with white linen. Bright abstract artwork sits on the walls, and there’s an airy sitting room to the right with a brown leather couch and television. Huge palms in terracotta pots are dotted throughout the space. An all-white bathroom is to the left, which has a huge stone bath and a double shower inside it. The place is homey, and so much more like what I expected from him.

“I live mostly in here,” he says.

“You don’t like the rest of the apartment?”

“I do. I wouldn’t have it like that if it were mine, but I can’t change it. This building and the furnishings have been in our family for centuries.”

“How long have you lived here alone?” I ask as I walk around his room looking at things.

“Ten years.” He takes me into his arms. “Where do you want to go today?”