Billionaire Triplets Matchmakers

by Mia Caldwell

  Yes, it had.

  Up ahead, he saw a group of people standing outside an open door. He went inside, not bothering to speak to anyone, found a seat in the back away from the others and kept his head down as he waited for his first gambler’s anonymous meeting to start.

  Joan always took a two-hour break during the lunch hour, and even though she’d been out with her sister, earlier in the day, she didn’t see any reason to change it now. But, instead of going on another two-hour walk, Joan had something else in mind. She needed a meeting.

  The incident with the alcohol had reminded her just how long it had been since she’d gone to a meeting, and her just how vulnerable she was to temptation. She didn’t feel like drinking – at least not in a conscious way – and yet, the memory of the moment of anticipation, the way her body had pulled her towards the drink, singing its promises of comfort and warmth – that had been real and very much in her path of awareness, and it scared the shit out of her. First alcohol, then pills, and then ... she didn’t even want to go there.

  When she arrived at the meeting, she remembered why she hadn’t made it a habit of going. She’d attended the meeting a few times after coming to Barcelona and she often felt a little out of place. The people were nice enough but it was a big meeting held only in Spanish which was more than terrible at. But, then again, meetings all around the world basically said the same thing. The twelve steps were the twelve steps whether in English, Spanish, French or Pig Latin.

  She laughed at that thought and smiled to the greeter.

  “Ah, you are the American,” he said, “You came, once, a few months before?”

  She smiled, and nodded, “Yes, I came once,” she said.

  Then she pushed past him and went inside the room. She didn’t want to engage with anyone.

  She got herself a Styrofoam cup and poured herself a coffee, then went to the middle of the room and took a seat. When the room began to fill up, she started to relax.

  The man who’d greeted her was leading the meeting. And to Joan’s annoyance, he called her out. “We have a special guest back with us today,” he said, looking straight at Joan. “An American, I believe. Joan, isn’t it? Why don’t you stand up and introduce yourself?”

  Joan felt her cheeks heat, and not just because he’d called her out. How did he know her name? It had been almost two months since she’d come to a meeting in that room. She didn’t even remember meeting the guy before. Oh well. She obviously had met him, and the dude had some memory.

  People were clapping, expecting her to introduce herself, so she stood up and muttered, “I’m Joan, and I’m an alcoholic.” Then she sat down.

  Behind her, there was a sudden commotion, as if a chair had fallen.

  Joan turned around and saw that some man wearing ragged clothes had fallen out of his chair. People were helping him back to his seat. The man, had his head ducked down as if in shame.

  Her heart went out to the man. Just another Drunk.

  The meeting continued and the readings were done in Spanish, then a few people shared in Spanish. Joan had already decided, given the uncomfortable presence of the greeter, that she’d sit on her hands and not share.

  The greeter stood again. “Why don’t we let our two guests share now, in English? Any objections?”

  Joan was a little annoyed by this. She didn’t want to share. She shook her head and avoided the leader’s eye.

  “Alright, if our American doesn’t want to share, how about the gentleman that fell out of his chair?”

  There were titters of laughter followed by enthusiastic applause.

  Joan felt sorry for the man, and more than a little irritated with the leader for calling on a man who was obviously not sober. She turned to give the poor guy a sympathetic smile, but the man was practically hiding her face in his coat.

  The leader pressed, “Come on, at least tell us your first name.”

  The man lifted his face, and Joan gasped as she recognized who it was.

  It was Antonio. Oh, my God. And he looked terrible.

  Was he drunk?

  He certainly looked like hell, the way his body was doubled over as if in great pain.

  It was inappropriate for the leader to press anyone to speak, especially someone who was currently drunk.

  “No, I’ll go,” Joan said, hoping to take the attention away from the poor man. The greeter smiled broadly and waved her to the podium. She got up and took her spot. By the time she turned around to face the room, Antonio was already gone.

  She swallowed away her disappointment at seeing him go, then began her share. “My name is Joan and I’m an Alcoholic,” she said, not bothering to try and speak Spanish since the greeter had told her to share in English.

  “I haven’t been to a meeting in a while, but today I was reminded just how strong the disease is inside me. Something upsetting happened to a loved one, and since she’s not one of us, she was offered a drink to calm her nerves. She took it, and it helped her, but a drink was offered to me out of courtesy. Before I could even think to stop myself, I was reaching for that alcohol. It was like a magnet and my fingers were metal filings, you know what I mean?”

  There were nods in the room as people sat on the edge of their seats, some of them translating to Spanish what she was saying.

  “So, I almost took that drink. My sister stopped me in time, but I was so shocked by my actions that I almost threw up.” A few people thought that was funny, but Joan didn’t, so the laughter died quickly away. “So, that’s why I’m here,” she said wrapping up her share. “I needed to be reminded that I’m not like other people. I can’t drink or use successfully. I always screw my life up when I try it, so, I’ve decided not to do it anymore. Thanks for letting me share.”

  They all clapped. Instead of sitting down, Joan hurried out of the room. She was hoping to catch Antonio. If he was a drunk like her, then maybe she should help him... maybe, she could let go of her anger over how he’d behaved. Maybe, she would be there for him, like he hadn’t been for her.

  But, when Joan got to the front of the church, she saw that she was too late.

  Antonio was long gone.

  Chapter Five

  ANTONIO FERRARO FELT like both a heel and an idiot as he ducked out of the AA meeting. He knew that she’d recognized him, and it made him sick that she’d seen him like that. He couldn’t face her, not battered and down, worse than he’d ever been in his life. He’d messeded up – didn’t even have the sense to check which meeting he’d walked into. As soon as he rounded the corner he noticed a much smaller room with a meeting going on inside. There were only a handful of people. On the door knob, a sign hung which read “GA”. Well, he knew where to go next time, if there ever was a next time.

  When he got outside, he found himself fumbling in his pocket for his keys. He laughed as his fingers pressed the unlock button on his key fob. His car was probably in the impound lot by now. It occurred to him that he hadn’t bothered to look on the windshield for a ticket. Maybe it was still where he’d parked it? He saw a taxi driving by and flagged it down.

  When they got back to his car, it was being towed. “Let me out,” Antonio shouted to his driver. The cab pulled over, and before it came to a complete stop, Antonio threw open, and despite the pain, ran to the men hooking his car up to a tow truck. He started yelling at the men, shouting that they couldn’t tow his car on that truck. Explaining in his best Spanish, that dragging it down the road would ruin the very expensive car.

  “Flatbed,” he said in Italian, and English, because he didn’t know the word in Spanish.

  To his surprise, the man in charge, brought over a phone. Antonio explained to the person on the other line, who understood English, about how the car would lose all its value if they towed it on anything but a flatbed.

  The man with the wrong kind of tow truck, disengaged his chains, and drove away.

  Antonio knew they’d be back. And there was a lock on his wheel, so he couldn’t drive of
f, even if he wanted to.

  He picked off the ticket from his windshield and waved for his cabbie to come over. He didn’t want to walk back to his hotel. He thought about last few thousand dollars he had in his bank account, the pending hotel bill, the fine he’d have to pay, to get his car out. Then he thought about how he still needed to pay for food between now and the wedding.

  He wasn’t sure he could afford to stay in Barcelona through Saturday.

  Maybe, he should just go back to Italy and skip the wedding.

  No, Julio Torres would be angry with him.

  “Of course! Julio!” he said out loud.

  Julio Torres was his defector Godfather, and he was a billionaire. Why hadn’t he thought of him before? Julio would help him out of this jam. He didn’t need to pinch pennies.

  The cabbie drove up. “I go now, sir, good day,” said the cabby.

  “No, I need a ride.”

  “But, you’ve got a car,” he said, as he lifted two bushy eyebrows inquisitively.

  “It’s got a wheel lock,” Antonio explained, pointing to the front wheels.

  The driver shook his head, “Look again,” he said. “It’s not attached.”

  “What?” Antonio walked over to the wheel and tugged at the clamp, expecting it to stay on tight, but, to his surprise, it came back in his hand and clattered to the ground.

  Shit.

  “That’ll be one hundred Euros,” said the cab driver holding out his hand.

  “What? It was only thirty when I took the same ride before,” Antonio said, fudging the truth to suit his circumstances.

  “Yes, I understand, but the other driver wasn’t promising to keep his mouth shut.” The cabby held out his hand.

  Antonio looked at the car, then at the cabby, then back at the car again. “Fine,” he said, then he dug into his wallet and pulled out the rest of his cash, giving the cabby his one hundred Euro, which left him with under forty Euros to his name. The cabby drove away, and Antonio got back into his car. The engine started and her roared off towards the L’Eixample District where he hoped to find an understanding Julio Torres.

  Despite being childhood friends he hadn’t spoken to Julio for over ten years. They had met because Julio’s father, Eduardo, had proclaimed himself to be a close friend Antonio’s father – some soldier who served in the Spanish Air Force with Eduardo, a brave man who’d died not long after Antonio was born.

  Antonio hadn’t thought about how strange the relationship was when he was a young boy. He and his mother had lived in virtual poverty in their depressed Italian neighborhood, and yet twice a year he was invited to spend time with his godfather in a wealthy part of Spain. He had been very close with Julio, who was only a few years older and enjoyed sports like Antonio did. Mamacita Torres always treated him like family – they all treated him like family – but for some reason, his mother never came to the house on his visits.

  After he’d started to show promise as a soccer player he’d been moved from the public school into a private boarding school, where he’d been placed on a competitive team. Antonio learned later that his Godfather Torres had pulled strings to get him into the better school and had even paid for it. As Antonio’s talents became known, he was picked up by the soccer farm leagues and eventually earned a spot as a professional soccer player.

  On his first ever day playing as a professional he’d seen his Godfather Torres seated in the VIP section of the stadium along with many other important people, watching him play. His mother was also there and he’d made them all proud, getting a hat trick on his first day out and winning the game for his team.

  After that, his Godfather Torres became ill, and Antonio was too busy becoming a superstar to take the time to go and see him. When he got word that Godfather had passed, Antonio was very sad.

  He was surprised when he got a letter in the mail from his former childhood buddy, Julio Torres, who had grown up and was making a mint building large commercial centers around the world. They’d enjoyed each others company as children and young men, but they’d hardly been close. When he read the letter, he was even more surprised. Julio explained that it was a request in his father’s will that Antonio remain connected to the Torres family. He went on to further declare that he’d gone to his priest at the Catholic church in Passieg De Gracia and designated himself Antonio’s new godfather. Antonio had been touched, and he sent a response via post thanking his former soccer buddy for the kind gesture.

  That was the last they’d connected, almost two years ago. Hopefully Julio’s letter wasn’t just a gesture, and he meant it when he said he’d be there for Antonio.

  There was no parking immediately in front of his recently anointed godfather’s house, so he drove around the curve and parked at the first available spot. He double checked to make sure he was parked legally, then he locked his car and walked back.

  Antonio looked up at the house. It hadn’t changed in all these years. He remembered trying to play soccer on the curved street and felt a strong pang of desire to see Mamacita Torres and Julio again, but as he climbed the steps he felt twinges of shame. If Julio knew what a screw up he’d become, would he want anything to do with him?

  He girded his loins and rang the doorbell as a good excuse for showing up came into his head. He was in town a few days early for some business, but he had extra time on his hands, and was there anything he could do to assist with the wedding? “Yes, that might work,” he muttered to himself in Italian, but then he shut up as he heard the door opening. Mamacita Torres answered the door.

  “Antonio? It is you!” she gushed as she rushed forward and smothered him with hugs and kisses. “Aunt Sophia, look who’s come home, it’s Antonio. Come in, come in.” Antonio’s chest squeezed with emotion at the heartfelt expression of love for him. Despite his shame and fears he couldn’t help but smile under the weight of all that love and affection.

  He looked around the house. It was exactly as he’d remembered it.

  Mamacita Torres ushered him to the kitchen where Aunt Sophia and several other ladies he didn’t recognize were engaged in making centerpieces, no doubt for the upcoming wedding.

  “Can I help?” Antonio asked after they made introductions all around. Mamacita was making tapas and he was given a plate. All the ladies were eating tapas and drinking hot mulled wine. Antonio declined the wine, but accepted the offer of coffee. “I’m driving,” he explained. The truth was he still felt a little muddy and dehydrated from the two beers earlier in the day, and he wanted to have his wits about him for his discussion with Julio.

  “Where’s my new Godfather?” he asked.

  The women all tittered. Mamacita Torres explained to the other ladies about how Julio had gone to the priest to get assigned Godfather duty for his late father’s Godchildren. There were four in all, and Antonio was the only one that hadn’t stopped by to pay his respects.

  “Oh,” said the old ladies wisely.

  Aunt Sophia added. “You are a lucky boy, there is no better Godfather to guide you than Julio Torres.” Antonio winced at that. These people took their Catholicism seriously, and a Godfather’s job was to guide a younger person’s spirituality, not to bail them out of whatever jam they got themselves into – especially when it was based on a sin like gambling. He wondered again if Julio would want to help him.

  Antonio put that negative thought out of his mind. “Yes, I’m sure I’m very lucky. So, when did you say he’d be back?”

  “Not until tonight, or perhaps tomorrow. He’s in Milan for work,” said Mamacita Torres.

  Antonio lifted an eyebrow as he thought about the irony. He’d come from Milan only to find that the man he wanted to see was currently in Milan.

  “Fine, then I guess I can help you lovely ladies that much longer.”

  They all giggled, and put him to work. Antonio found himself relaxing, almost forgetting the perils that awaited him out in the real world as he ate, sipped his coffee and worked on the assembly line preparing the f
our hundred wrapped flower arrangements which would be shipped out soon for the big wedding.

  The doorbell rang, and a female voice from the other room, yelled through the house. “I’ll get it.”

  A second later, something heavy crashed to the floor. Anthony instinctively ran into the hallway, fearful that he’d brought trouble to these fine people. When he saw the woman on the floor, her skin the color of milk chocolate, unconscious with an ashen face, he thought for a moment that he was hallucinating that it was Joan. Then he saw that it wasn’t Joan, the woman had different face – broader, larger boned, wider shoulders, bigger hips. He ran to her, whoever she was, and was relieved that she was coming around. He helped her sit up. “Who are you?” she asked, still a little dazed.

  “Here, watch out for the glass,” he said as he helped her to her feet. She’d been carrying a large crystal glass filled with flowers and she’d obviously dropped it when she had her fainting spell. Then Antonio remembered that the doorbell had rung. So, who was the person at the door?

  An anxious man stood on the steps, his face almost puce with concern. “Is she dead? Oh, God, please tell me she’s not dead.”

  “Calm down, she just fainted, I’m sure you’ll be fine. What the hell happened?”

  The Joan look-alike was standing in the doorway, pointing down to the car in the driveway, her face was streaming with tears. The man who’d been wringing his hands at the door turned and shouted to the people down by the limo. “Get up here you idiots, she’s come back ‘round. Get the shot!”