Billionaire Triplets Matchmakers

by Mia Caldwell

  There was no answer.

  “Joan, I’m back...” he tried again.

  Water trickled from the faucet, but the bathroom was empty.

  “Joan?” he called out, his voice rising. He bolted through the suite, into all sections, but Joan wasn’t there, nor were any of her things. He scanned for a note. Nothing.

  Guilt and anxiety washed over Antonio like a wave from an ocean made of acid rain. It ate away the high from winning that had sustained him since walking out of that poker game with a bag full of money, the high that had kept him in blissful ignorance of the consequences of his actions.

  But the consequences were hitting him hard now: Joan was gone.

  He’d blown it, again.

  He kicked the bedpost and shouted, stomped around the room and punched the wall, but it didn’t help.

  He grabbed his head in his hands and tried to get a grip on the situation. She shouldn’t have been angry. He’d told the night manager to give her a note to explain his abrupt departure.

  Yes. That’s all it was. She’s gone, simply because it was too boring to wait around for him in his hotel suite. Or, maybe she decided to go back home so she could get an early start on her work day – she did after all have a job as a nanny to three boys.

  Antonio tried to reassure himself, that things would be fine once he had a chance to connect with her later in the day.

  Feeling somewhat better about everything, Antonio blew out a breath and realized that he was bone tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. And the pain in his ribs was becoming intolerable.

  He found the ibuprofen and dry swallowed three.

  The poker game had been full of smokers, so he stripped and stood in the shower, trying to rinse the stench away. He got out, dried his hair, and crawled into bed naked.

  He set his alarm for six o’clock. That would give him time to get to Joan’s house before she started her shift as the nanny at eight. If he knocked on the door at 7:15 or so, surely, she’d be up and he could make sure that things were still cool between them, maybe make plans for taking her out again after she got off work.

  As he lay on the bed, his damp hair against the pillow, a mixture of emotions raced through his brain. He tried to push away negative thoughts and focus, instead, on the spicy sweet scent of Joan that still lingered on his sheets.

  Everything was good, he told himself.

  His luck was back. He’d won enough money to save his legs from being broken and his source of income from being removed.

  Best of all, he had another shot at winning the biggest prize of all.

  The heart of the woman he’d never stopped loving, the one he’d stupidly let get away once before. With that thought filling his mind and soul, Antonio’s breathing slowed, his eyelids grew heavy and he fell into deep, much needed sleep.

  ANTONIO’S HEAD SWIVELS as he searches the pitch for a member of his team. He’s been running with the ball for a while. Shouldn’t he pass it on?

  But no one else on the pitch is wearing his uniform, the only color he sees is the opponents.

  He keeps going, dribbling the ball. Two at a time the other team sends up defenders who try to take the ball away, but his opponents are slow and thick-legged. Antonio has no trouble keeping the ball away from them. It’s too easy.

  Then he recognizes the faces; the same two thugs that beat him up in the empty lot. As soon as he takes the ball past one pair of defenders, another set storms out of the mist. His lungs are burning, it feels as if he’s been running for miles, yet the goal never seems to get any closer.

  “You’re a loser. You can’t win. Give up.”

  He hears the shouts, the taunts, and suddenly he’s unable to fend them off.

  The thug that never speaks takes the ball away and

  Antonio must use all his skill to regain possession, even as every muscle in his body burns from the effort.

  With the ball back he lunges forward towards the goal but it’s still too far away for a good shot, and now his legs and feet feel like they’re running through water.

  He can’t seem to get any closer.

  Behind him, heavy footsteps fall and the jeers are louder. They’re closing in. He looks at the goal.

  Take the shot.

  A shrill whistle blows before he can take the kick.

  It’s so loud and painful that he covers his ears with his hand and squeezes his eyes shut.

  The whistle stops, and when Antonio opens his eyes again, the mist has cleared, and bright sunlight fills the pitch.

  He’s closer to the goal now, and his opponents are lined up for a penalty kick.

  The referee drops the ball in front of him, then backs away.

  Antonio looks down at the ball, but it’s not a soccer ball, it’s a duffle bag. He can see money poking out of it. It’s his winnings. Antonio’s heart is racing. He looks at the goal, then at the bag, and knows that he must kick the bag of money into the goal, or else.

  His opponents jostle against each other to try and close any gaps that would allow him to score. They scowl and try to look mean, but Antonio can see the fear on their faces as they anxiously cup their jewels.

  The urge to laugh bubbles up as Antonio gets his first proper view of these thugs in short shorts, but Antonio knows there is nothing to laugh about.

  Antonio knows that he must make the shot, or he will surely die.

  He braces himself, waiting for the signal from the ref.

  Sounds of cheering draw his attention to the stands. The stadium is full, and every fan is the same person, Joan.

  The Joans are cheering him on, believing in him, willing him to make his shot.

  The support of the Joans gives him new hope. His throat is dry, but, he forces his mind to concentrate, to shut everything out but the goal and the ball.

  The whistle blows.

  Antonio takes three steps then kicks the bag with all his might, taking the most important shot of his life.

  It launches off the ground towards the defenders. The thugs jump high as they can and try and block the shot with their heads. But it soars over their angry, twisting and leaping bodies.

  “Yes!” Antonio’s shouts as the bag clears the first hurdle. He needs it to curve down now, towards the goal. But the bag isn’t curving down.

  He watches helplessly as the bag spins in the air, and flies over the goal, and then the stands. “Nooooooooooo,” he shouts, and the voices of a thousand Joans join him. He missed. The game is over. They’ve lost.

  Devastated utterly by his failure, Antonio collapses to his knees as his teammates finally catch up to him. Antonio hides his head in his hands, unwilling to face his team. He’s let them down, he’s let everyone down.

  “How could you do that? How could you miss?”

  His fellow players are very upset, and Antonio can’t face them. But, when he finally lifts his mournful, sorrowful face, he gasps. Each teammate is his Godfather, Julio Torres. Each of the Julios is shaking their heads, with the same looks on their unhappy faces. Each one projecting the same sentiments; utter disappointment, eternal rejection, and undisguised disgust.

  It’s too painful.

  Antonio turns away, searching in the stands for an understanding face.

  Surely the Joans will stand with him in his hour of need and forgive this unfortunate mistake?

  The Joans are not there. No one is there, the stands aren’t even there anymore. He’s no longer on a soccer pitch – he’s on a desolate, empty hillside. He’s all alone.

  He walks through the gloom as leaves and dust blow around his feet. After a while he notices a cross in the ground, then his chest tightens as he notices more grave markers.

  He’s in a cemetery.

  From behind him, a soccer ball bounces past him, propelled by the wind. He watches for a moment, then decides to follow the ball. Defying gravity, it rolls up hill and turns down a path. When it comes to rest against a shiny, new headstone fear clutches at Antonio’s soul. He
knows who the grave must belong to, without having to read it.

  He tries to turn away from it, but he can’t move. His feet are encased in the ground as if buried in concrete. He squeezes his eyes shut, but fingers of fate pull at his eyes, prying is eyelids open.

  Invisible hands shove his face forward, forcing him to look.

  Here lies Antonio Ferraro, Who Died a Pathetic Gambler, with Nothing to Show for Himself, and No One who Cared.

  Antonio opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

  Antonio sat bolt upright in bed, panting and gasping. His body was drenched in sweat and his hands shook as he grasped his knees, clutching them to his chest as he tried to shake away the terrifying dream.

  That was one hell of a nightmare.

  He tried not to think about it.

  It was still early morning, he’d barely slept an hour. It didn’t matter. He knew he couldn’t go back to sleep even if there was time left on the alarm clock – he couldn’t risk oversleeping.

  He needed to talk to Joan.

  Showering and getting out of the hotel took fifteen minutes before he was roaring towards the Torres house, the rising sun shining orange onto the Mediterranean.

  As with the last time, there was no parking near the Torres house. He parked around the corner in almost the same spot he’d parked before.

  He walked up the steps, and before he could ring the doorbell, Joan’s older sister answered the door. The minute she saw him, she rushed him, “You!” she screamed as her hands balled into a fist and she started pounding against his chest in undisguised rage. “What did you do to my sister? What did you do to her?”

  WHEN JOAN CAME TO SHE wished she could go back to wherever she’d just been, because the pain between her eyes was excruciating. Her mouth was cotton and her tongue was a thick as a sea sponge. She tried to open her eyes, but the light made everything worse. She covered her eyes with one hand, and waved the other one frantically around, muttering with a scratchy raw voice to anyone that might hear, “Turn off the lights, turn off the lights!”

  “No, Señorita, the lights stay on,” came a stern voice.

  Joan sat up, her eyes popping open. She tried to get her bearings. “Where am I?” She said, but her tongue was thick and her words didn’t come out clearly.

  “You are in carcel. How you say – jail?”

  “I’m in jail?” Joan said, slurring. She wracked her foggy brain, trying to remember, but nothing was coming through.

  “You can stop, officer,” said a voice with authority.

  “Yes, please, make him go away. This is just a misunderstanding,” came another voice, subtle and seductive, vaguely familiar.

  “Mommy?” Joan asked, barely aware of who or what she was.

  “Yes, dear, it’s me. Now, these nice people are going to let you go. You’re coming with me, can you walk?”

  Joan tried to stand, her legs like rubber. She peered through slits in her eyes and saw that her mother was wearing different clothes. Gone was the ridiculous African Queen ensemble, now she was wearing a beaded evening gown that plunged down her neckline. Joan’s mother held her firm as Joan managed to stand all the way up. Joan’s eyes traveled to a tall man who looked as big as a bear, dressed in the police chief’s uniform. Her mother glanced admiringly at the man.

  “This is my new friend, Capitan Campos. He’s agreed to release you into my custody, since this is your first offense.”

  “How very nice of him,” Joan tried to say, but it came out as “Ha verrr naaaaas a himmmm.”

  Her mother tried to hold her steady on her feet, but, Joan lurched forward and out came a torrent of vomit all over her mother’s beautiful dress before she passed out again.

  When she came to, she was on her back, on a comfortable bed, soft sheets over her body. There was a large stainless steel bowl next to her face, and behind it a box of tissues and a large glass of water on a nightstand.

  Her eyes focused on a digital alarm clock. It said, Mircoles 10:00 AM.

  She tried to remember. Mircoles was Wednesday.

  Shit.

  Joan sat up in the bed, regretting the fast movement as her head swam. She reached for the bowl and held it close, but the nausea passed. Her face was sweating. With trembling hands she reached for the water and sipped it, slowly at first, and then faster as it stayed down. She propped pillows behind her and tried to sit up.

  It was all coming back to her now.

  She’d gotten drunk. Four days before the wedding, and only two days before she was supposed to go to the country house in Vilafranca del Penedes and watch the triplets as their parents get ready to tie the knot. This was when she chose to go on a bender?

  She grabbed her head in both hands. “No, no, no!”

  She’d taken her one night off and allowed herself to destroy almost nine months of sobriety and all the work she’d done to get her life back on track.

  Why? What the hell had she been thinking? What the hell was wrong with her?

  She looked around the room, trying to figure out where she was.

  Another hotel room obviously, but whose?

  She had a vague recollection of a policeman and then her mother.

  Had her mother gotten her out of jail?

  Something wet dripped down her parched lips. She tasted salt. Tears. She was crying and she was a failure. No, worse than a failure. She was a drunk.

  Guilt smothered her. Lissa would never forgive her. How could she be trusted to watch the boys? How could she do this days before the wedding? She was leaving her sister in a lurch – ruining her wedding. She was the worst person in the world.

  Then she remembered Antonio, and an even deeper sorrow clouded over her.

  It had felt so right, so real, so perfect with him.

  She wiped away her tears, angrily.

  It was all a lie. She knew she should have run the first time she saw him and refused to acknowledge his presence, to talk to him, to think of him. But what had she done instead? She’d let him drive her away in his fancy car and lure her into his bed with his world-class body, steal her heart and her money. No, not her money. Lissa and Julio’s money.

  Joan made her way to the bathroom, and after relieving herself washed her face with cold water. She tried to look into her blood-rimmed eyes, but couldn’t face herself. She didn’t want to see the wanton hussy, the raging idiot, the drunk she’d become.

  A wave of exhaustion passed over her. She just wanted to crawl back to bed and sleep until it was all over. Maybe she could go back to America when no one was looking, find a convent that would take her, and hide away until the pain went away. As she made her way back to the bed and collapsed into it, she had one more thought before falling back into a deep sleep.

  Maybe, since she’d already blown it and there was nothing she could do about it, perhaps, after she woke up, she’d have just one more drink ... something to take the edge off, to help her come up with a plan to get her out of this mess.

  Chapter Eight

  MARCO JABBED AT HUNTER. “Quiet you two, something important is happening. Listen up.”

  They were in the kitchen earlier than usual, wondering why their Auntie Joan hadn’t been around for the previous night’s bedtime story or their wake up routine. The adults were all on edge, that was for sure, and Marco had been given the job of gathering intel to try and figure out what was going on.

  Hunter and Ryland crawled next to Marco, and they all stared at the adults and tried to understand the conversation.

  Their mother, and father, and that lady who’d showed up the night before were in the kitchen drinking coffee. Aunt Sophia was still sleeping in since she was a night owl, and Mamacita was wringing her hands, looking unhappy.

  “What’s happened?” their mother asked the other lady. She’d spoken to them the night before briefly and had told them to call her Grand Mama, but they weren’t sure what that meant. It was very confusing, but she spoke in a calm, elegant voice which made them feel a
little less on edge.

  “She’s cool,” Marco said.

  “I know, cool as a cucumber,” Ryland agreed. “So, that’s our mommy’s mommy?”

  “Apparently so, that’s why she wants us to call her Grand Mama,” Hunter said.

  Ryland was more outspoken than usual. “Shut up, you two. You’re missing it. I think this is important, I think they’re talking about why Auntie Joan isn’t around.”

  The three boys focused in on the conversation. “What happened to Joanie?” asked Mamacita, glaring at the new Grand Mama with something that resembled dislike.

  “Mama, please let her tell the story,” their father Julio said. The triplets were so happy to see their father again, but, other than giving them each a fast peck on the cheek after coming into the kitchen for his coffee, he’d been too distracted by the Auntie Joan problem to give them much time. It troubled the triplets to see their father’s obvious distress over the situation.

  Their father’s distress was nothing to their mother’s. Their mama looked ready to bawl, her face was so contorted with outrage. When she spoke her angry voice filled the room, and the triplets each cringed a little. “I know exactly what happened to her,” she said. “Joan got mixed up with that scoundrel Godson of yours. Antonio obviously got her drunk last night, and then abandoned her, so she could get arrested.”

  Their father Julio’s face darkened, “I’ll have a chat with him,” he said.

  “You’ll do more than that, you’ll uninvite him to the wedding.”

  “I know it looks bad, but you need to calm down, honey,” Papa Julio said to their Mama Lissa. “I think we need to hear his side of the story.”

  The adults stopped talking, for a moment. Hunter realized that his two brothers were glaring at him. “What?” Hunter said, defensively.

  “You’re the one that pushed her to hang out with Antonio. Now, our Auntie Joan is in trouble – he made her get drunk – whatever that means.”

  “Hey, that’s not fair. I agree with father; Antonio should have a chance to tell his side of the story.”

  “Hush, our Grand Mama is saying something,” Marco said, waving them back to the adult’s conversation. The three brothers rolled over on their backs, and without planning to do it, each did a backward arch and watched the proceedings from the upside-down position.