“Was she blondish hair by any chance?”
“Yeah, she was. How did you know?”
“Thanks,” I say, then drive off. I don’t answer to anyone I don’t want to unless it’s Dante or Riccardo because neither of them ask me dumb questions and they are both responsible for the entire organization.
Riccardo is the man who gets things done and I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of him. In fact, I respect him immensely.
One thing’s for certain, that Rolls that made a fast exit is not cheap. Florence has no shortage of sports cars, but they are usually seen at fancy parties or in the mountains where it’s fun to maneuver the hairpin turns at breakneck speeds, just like the motorcyclists on the weekends.
I’m curious as to where the woman was when I didn’t spot her in the club. Her looks are distracting enough. Who is she? Does she have a sugar daddy?
Now she has me thinking about her naked in the backseat of that Rolls and what I’d like to do with my lips. I have an overactive imagination and now it’s all riled up. I’m pissed that I didn’t hit on her before I became distracted with the Albanians.
Gripping the wheel of my car I try to relax on the ride home because my boner needs a seatbelt and it’s not a comfortable feeling, especially when there’s no one in my life to help release the pent up Stallion in my pants. The steering wheel is still too close to my engorged cock.
There’s something about high end sports cars and custom leather seats that can be adjusted. You wouldn’t believe how many women want to get laid in it. They should have designed it with a tilt adjustment one can make while driving.
I take my time as I cruise around the bends that take me up the mountain. I'm enjoying the drive where the landscape overlooks Florence. It’s two in the morning and the glow of the full moon reflects off the blacktop illuminating my way home like pixie dust.
Maybe I’m a lucky man.
As I pull up to my house the gravel crunches under the weight of my tires. The only light is from my headlights, illuminating the pale-yellow walls and green shutters.
I like retro style and the outdated wood shutters add a touch of old Italy to the architecture. Newer houses are looking more modern, but I like the old-world vibe best. The house has been in the family as long as I can remember.
It brings back fond memories of when Grandpa and Grandma lived here. I like to think that I’m on the cutting edge of everything new. When it came to wiring this place with the best security, there is nothing retro about it.
My guards let me know all is quiet before I go inside. The home I walk into gives little indication that I have spent the past year and buckets of money to renovate this place. Even at that, there is a laundry list of things that still need to be done.
It’s way too hot to open the house and I can’t wait for winter to get here. We don’t have three seasons anymore. I drop my keys on a ceramic plate that matches the décor of white, grey, and pale green.
My decorating vibe runs toward minimalist when it comes to furnishing the house. I chose lightweight drapes and white sheers to accent the clean white walls. I’m the money guy so it fits I like organization and being anal about details.
“Hey, Enzo,” I greet my head guard on the back patio, he normally works for my brother, but I needed extra guards with all that’s been going on in the south.
“Hello, sir, have a good night.” He heads out to patrol the perimeter.
“Thanks, you too,” I reply dimming the lights in the house. There is a small room at the bottom of the original wooden step by the front door that is worn thin from years of use. An antique armoire with a bench and hooks for coats is where I sat as a kid to take off my boots when we visited during the rainy season.
I pour myself a drink and head upstairs taking sips along the way and savor the flavor of a twenty-one-year-old scotch from Ireland as I reach the landing and unbutton my dress shirt.
My phone dings and I hope it’s not Marchello, who’s always in some kind of bind with his friends or playing cards. He’s the only one of who can drop all this stress and worry like it’s nothing. He simply lets it roll off his shoulders—like a duck in water.
He seems insulated from the violence around us and has a great sense of humor. I’m happy one of us doesn’t appear to be as emotionally damaged.
“Pronto,” I answer. “I better not have to bail you out of jail.”
“No, not at all. I just ran into Carla and I’m giving you the heads up, she’ll be at the gala tomorrow. You're still coming, right?” Marchello asks.
“Of course,” I sip my drink, “it’s business as usual.” My voice is void of emotion. Carla is cute and comes from a good family and yet I still refuse to take the bait and settle down.
Now, with Dante engaged and a wedding being planned it will keep Mama off our backs for some time. This leaves me free to milk the single life for five or more years. And if there is a grandbaby before then, I’m golden.
I can’t pinpoint exactly why I grow bored with girls so quickly. It’s as if they are the newest flavored alcohol that I have to try. Once. Maybe more than once, if I like the flavor. But it never lasts longer than a year. I think the three of us all play a game where one of us dates a girl just to keep Mama busy and we give her hope that one day we’ll all be hitched and expand the family.
Now, she’ll be busy planning Dante’s wedding, so Marchello and I have a short reprieve. I’m Italian, we philander and have mistresses. I can thank my ancestors for that. Or curse them, it seems to get me in trouble and all I did was partake in one innocent kiss with another woman.
“Everyone will be there tomorrow night?”