“You have six months to fix your house. If you fail to comply with the stipulated requirements by the end of the allotted time, the Ministry of Cultural Heritage and Tourism will legally acquire Casa Colonna and pay for its restoration. Under the Heritage Act, the estate will then become a museum,” he recited.
How many times had he repeated the same speech to some family that had lost everything?
“The office will send you the list of mandatory improvements.” He ripped a page from the notebook. “But just so you can start looking for an architect and a good remodeler, here are my notes. The sooner you start, the better. As it is, one of the bearing walls could collapse at any moment, and for your safety, I can’t grant habitability. You must move out by Saturday. Police officers will put the seals on Sunday morning.”
The inspector slammed the door behind him, leaving me in stupefied disbelief. I stared at the piece of paper crumpled in my hand, but my eyes couldn’t see anything. My brain shut down.
Chapter Four
Later, I worked my night shift at the bar in a haze. I took orders, mixed cocktails, even smiled when required, but my thoughts were far away.
The sum I needed to hire a contractor to fix my house was more than I could earn in two years. Had Aunt Marella’s property on Lake Como been in my name, I would have sold the place. Unfortunately, I hadn’t inherited yet because a distant cousin had appeared soon after my aunt’s death, contesting her will. Even though I was confident that I would win the cause, the paperwork would take at least a year before I could do anything with the estate. A good lawyer might have been able to clear up the inheritance mess quickly, but alas, I couldn’t even afford a bad attorney. Furthermore, the inspector had killed my plans to open a B&B. I had thought to lease the first and second floor to help with the remodeling expenses, but without habitability, I could do nothing. It was worse than that.
Sunday, I would be homeless.
Tonight’s crowd at the bar was loud. Or maybe it was my nerves that were too frayed. Several women giggled when a handsome man walked by outside the bar, then one of them exclaimed, “Is that Fabian Laurentis?”
Another shouted, “Fabian! Fabian! A selfie?”
Out of curiosity, I looked over the gaggle of geese, and there he was, my broody vampire neighbor. He didn’t stop but paused long enough to wave and throw an air-kiss at the swooning women. I could have sworn that his eyes searched the crowd as if looking for someone, and for the briefest of moments I thought he saw me, but he was gone a moment later. My fanciful imagination ran a few farfetched scenarios where Fabian felt my presence and sought me at the back of the bar.
“He’s so hot,” one of the women said. She was my age, blond and elegant, wearing a thin tank top that showed much when she swirled on the stool.
I couldn’t help but think that she was Fabian’s type, and it stung.
“I would give anything to spend a night with him,” her brunette friend said.
“Would you go all the way with him?” a third asked.
“You mean giving him blood?” The blonde took a sip from her martini.
“Yes.” The brunette gave her a wink.
“Of course,” the blonde answered without blinking. “It’s so taboo.”
“And I heard that it enhances the orgasm—”
Would I be willing to let a vampire feed from me in exchange for mind-blowing sex? Nope.
Why not? I asked myself.
Because it’s wrong on so many levels, I answered, but my internal conversation was far from concluded.
Oh, yes… but what about Fabian Laurentis?
What about him?
Wouldn’t you let him kiss you and touch you and—
No! It’s immoral.
Who says so?
Aunt Marella.
Aunt Marella never kissed a man, let alone a vampire—
“Hey, sweetheart, two B52s, please,” a customer ordered.
I had heard of the drink but never had one myself. “Give me a second.” I reached for my cell phone to check a cocktail app I downloaded yesterday to help me in cases like this one. By the time I was done with the beverages, the giggling women had left. Their conversation had the positive effect of diverting my worries from my impending eviction, at least for a moment, but now I was alone with my thoughts again.
“Ciao, bella,” an elegant man called me to the other end of the bar counter. Tall and dark-haired with big hazel eyes, he was exactly my type. “Sex on the Beach, please.” He winked, his full lips curving in a naughty smile.
“Right away,” I said automatically, already reaching for the peach schnapps and the vodka.
The man realized I wasn’t game and turned his 1000-watt smile on the girl to his right.
Order after order, I mixed alcohol and fresh-squeezed juices, throwing in lemon wedges or olives depending on what the cocktail required. Finally, Carlo, the bar manager, closed the door behind the last customers and turned toward me.
“Go home,” Carlo said with a smile.
“I haven’t cleaned the glasses.” I passed the rag over the counter, spreading the strong disinfectant all over the stainless-steel surface.
“You can barely stand.” Carlo grabbed the rag and pointed his chin at the glass door with the wrought-iron gate half-closed. “See you tomorrow.”
I thanked him and drunkenly walked around the counter, even though I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol.
Carlo laughed and saw me to the exit with a brotherly hug.
Outside, the night air was pleasantly cold with a playful breeze that ruffled my hair and restored my senses, waking me up. I rode back home, following the fastest route, and I was in my bedroom twenty minutes later.
Sleep eluded me. My eyes staring at the crackling fresco on the ceiling, my mind kept going back to the inspector’s visit.
Chapter Five
After a sleepless night, I looked like I felt, horrible. There would be no concealer strong enough to cover the dark circles under my eyes, and no espresso with enough caffeine to reestablish myself among the land of the living.
Only yesterday, I woke feeling on top of the world. Today, I felt like I was being crushed under the entire solar system.
I tied my long hair into a messy bun, not because I followed the latest trends in fashion but because I couldn’t manage to pause the trembling in my hands. Fear of losing everything I had left of my family had that effect on my appearance. I didn’t care that much for earthly possession, but Colonna House was my haven.
As I attempted to gather my thoughts and find a solution, I kept pacing from one end of the long hallway to the other. Aunt Marella had already sold our most valuable possessions. Gone were the most prestigious paintings and the precious china, alongside the antique furniture that fetched a good sum. What was left to sell wouldn’t cover a tenth of the sum required by a remodeling so extensive. The salaries from my two combined jobs wouldn’t scratch the surface. And even Mrs. Violetta’s commission wouldn’t make a difference.
What else could I do?
Think, think, think! All the pacing didn’t help my frail nerves. Everywhere I looked, I saw familiar objects.
The padded bench under the recessed window where I learned how to read. The small desk that had changed position a thousand times before ending against the wall between the two columns. The porcelain vase at the end of the hallway, an antique, hand painted piece from Deruta. The wooden chest that still contained my fencing gear and the sabre Dad gave me…
A choked cry escaped my lips. I couldn’t torture myself with these kinds of thoughts, and I still had to show up for work.
A few minutes later, I was on my bike, heading for Piazza Navona where Paolo’s calming presence would ground me. I powered through the ride, and by the time I reached my destination, I was covered in sweat, and my leg muscles screamed in agony. That was good; the pain pushed away unwanted thoughts of immediate destitution.
The stall was in the same condition I had left it the
day before, the metal grate lowered and locked.
“That’s strange,” I whispered, bringing my hand over my eyes to shield them from the bright glare of the sun. Squinting, I scanned the square for my friend.
Sometimes, on his way to his spot, Paolo lagged, lost in conversation with the other artists populating Piazza Navona. But he was nowhere to be found. Maybe he was still buying breakfast. I rounded the piazza twice, looking for him. The extra exercise was good for my nerves in any case, but then I decided to get productive and went back to open the stall. I was almost done placing paintings on their easels when our stall neighbor, a sculptor who specialized in risqué vampire pieces, stepped out of his awning and called me.
“Hi, Luigi, how’s it going?” I gave him a smile, and the wary expression on his face made me set down a heavy frame.
“Stella—” he started, then shook his head. “Nobody called you.”
My heart dropped. “It’s Paolo, isn’t it?”
“I wasn’t here, but my partner was and told me what happened. Paolo had just arrived, and he collapsed—”
“Did he faint?” I could barely breathe; then a darker thought made me ask, “Was it a stroke?”
Paolo suffered from hypertension.
Luigi shook his head. “I don’t know—”
“Where is Antonio?” His partner. “Did he leave with Paolo?”
“No—”
I didn’t let Luigi finish his sentence. “Where is Paolo now?”
“Antonio called the ambulance, but he didn’t tell me if he knew where they took Paolo, and he’s already left for the day. He had some family drama to take care of.” His shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
“Give me Antonio’s number.” I then added, “Please.” Fear gripped my empty stomach. “I must find Paolo,” I murmured as an explanation for my abrupt request. “He has nobody.”
Paolo had no kids, and his brother—his only family—lived in Australia, on the other side of the world.
“Of course.” Luigi grabbed the frame I was holding against my leg.
I mechanically let go of the frame, and stepped outside of the stall’s shade, reaching for my cell phone in the satchel still dangling from the bike’s handles. After Luigi dictated his partner’s number, I called Antonio, but he didn’t answer.
Luigi must have seen the desperation creeping in my expression because he said, “I’ll get hold of him, and I’ll make sure he calls you back.”
“Thank you.” Without a clear idea of what I should do next, I speed-dialed Paolo’s number, hoping that he would answer and tell me it had been just a scare. But the cold echo of the rings sounded louder and louder in my ear before his answering machine asked me to leave a message.
Chapter Six
Where to go? What to do? My hands still trembled, and I couldn’t stop them. Antonio hadn’t answered, and neither had Paolo.
“Sweetie—” Luigi pointed his chin at a tourist who had approached the stall and was looking at one of Paolo’s students’ painting.
The man turned as if he wanted to ask a question and I blankly stared back at Luigi instead.
“Go, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” Luigi said, then begun talking to the potential client I had almost scared away.
With a grateful nod, I moved away from the stall and walked toward the Four Rivers Fountain. I sat on the edge of the marble monument and typed “hospitals” on my phone. A list of the nearest medical facilities appeared on the screen. I called the first one, asking for Paolo. He wasn’t there. Refusing to fall into despair, I called the next number, and then the next, and the next.
Frustration and fear mingled in my chest. I attempted a few calming breaths that didn’t make me feel any better, then I racked my brain for anything that could help me find Paolo in a city as big as Rome.
My thoughts ran in circles, and I feel lightheaded. Did I eat anything this morning? Did I have any dinner last night? I needed food and coffee, stat. For once, I had money in my pocket, and I forced myself to buy a slice of focaccia from the cart at the corner and then walked back to Paolo’s stall. The focaccia remained inside its greasy wrapper for the entirety of the rushed stroll.
“Did you hear back from Antonio?” I mouthed to Luigi, who was talking on his phone.
“I’m talking to him now,” Luigi hurried to say, showing me his cell phone. “Antonio, Stella is here—” He paused before adding, “Yes, I’ll tell her. Ciao,” and ended the call.
“So, what did he say?” In my enthusiasm, I waved my breakfast around but managed to keep the focaccia inside the wrapper with a flick of my wrist.
“Paolo is at the Umberto Primo.”
“Why so far?” The University polyclinic was in San Lorenzo neighborhood and farther away than any other hospitals I had contacted earlier.
Luigi gave me a sympathetic smile and a little shrug. “I don’t know why, sweetie.”
“Can you hold the fort for the rest of the morning?” I gestured toward the paintings as I walked to my bike.
Luigi’s smile widened. “Sure. No problem.”
“Thank you.” Moving my messenger bag to my back, I mounted my bike and left, throwing my meal in the nearest trashcan.
It was already late morning, and Piazza Navona had filled with tourists. Riding my bike to San Lorenzo and taking the bus would take the same amount of time. I’d rather pedal across Rome than travel like a sardine inside a can, so I pushed through the crowd and left the piazza. Cars whizzed by when I entered the main artery, and I had to compete with them, as well as with motorcycles and scooters, for the right of way. By the time I reached the Umberto Primo Hospital, exhaust grime had covered me, but having to focus on not becoming road kill helped me clear my mind from anything else.
A matronly lady at the information desk told me that Paolo had been admitted to the cardiology ward, but was now in intensive care and only family could be notified about his health.
“I need to see him,” I said, my heart shrinking with every heartbeat. “I need to know how he is.”
“Are you his daughter?” the woman gently asked.
“No, but—”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything else.” She raised her palms to express her inability to help me. “Come back tomorrow at visiting hours. Hopefully by then your friend has made it back to cardiology, and you can see him.”
With tears in my eyes, I thanked the lady and headed out. I was already entering Stamperia Street and could see the façade of my building when I realized I had all but forgotten about calling Pane & Amore to give them the heads-up that I was going to skip the lunch shift.
“Do you know what day is today?” the owner’s eatery said as a way of greeting when he answered. Before I could say that I didn’t know but that I was very sorry, he added, “The Senate was in full session, and I had to send away customers because I was understaffed. This is the second time this week you bailed on me. At least, the first time you had the decency to call.”
“It won’t happen again. I promise.” I wanted to cry. “I’ll be there in a few minutes, and I’ll cover the dinner shift.”
“You can stop by. I’ll pay what I owe you for the two days you worked this week, but don’t bother coming back tomorrow.”
His words froze me on the spot. He hung up, and I was left staring at the phone.
Movement from the other side of the sidewalk made me turn. Of course, my humiliation wouldn’t be complete without witnesses. The most handsome vampire in Rome was looking straight at me, a strange expression on his perfect face.
I hurriedly wiped the tears with my hand and turned to face my door, hoping that I wouldn’t fumble with the keys.
I did.
Chapter Seven
After collecting my salary at Pane & Amore, I spent the remainder of the night at the bar, where I botched several cocktails, and patrons complained with Carlo. Carlo was nice enough to help me out, but I made very little in tips. Still, he d
idn’t fire me, and that was the only positive note of a day I wanted to erase from my memory.
The next day I woke a full hour before the sun rose, after a fitful slumber filled with the usual nightmare. This time, my night terror had been clearer, less like a bad dream and more like an awful memory. But with a life that was already a nightmare, it made sense that my night life would worsen too. The cotton sheets were tangled between my legs, and my pillow was on the floor. I had even knocked off the glass of water I kept on my nightstand. Water had spread over the marble tiles and reached my journal that had ended up on the floor as well. Soggy pages with ink stains were all that was left of my most intimate thoughts. I had written in that diary once a month since I was sixteen—the year my parents died.
It was as if a dam opened, and I couldn’t contain my tears any longer. Loud sobs escaped me, and soon I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. This time, I didn’t fight it but let it all out: my pain and grief, my anger, my frustration, my fury. It was too much.
Crying, I picked up the pillow and hugged it, then leaned against the headboard of my bed. I wanted to sink and disappear from the face of the earth. I wanted the hurt tearing me apart to stop. I wanted to sleep forever.
And when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, like a tragicomic déjà vu, my neighbor decided to intrude in my life, again, and at the most inopportune moment.
Like a partial replica of the previous night’s fiasco, Fabian was standing in front of his window, looking straight at me with his intense stare. Several meters divided us—more distance than the night before—but it felt as if he were in my bedroom. The idea should have scared me. His mere presence usually frightened me. Instead, I wished he would jump from his building and land inside my room like one of his movie characters. In my forbidden fantasy, he would push me down to the bed and slowly remove my clothes, his soft voice murmuring how beautiful I was and how he desired me.
What would it feel like to lose myself to his kisses? To forget my problems in his strong arms? Would it be so bad to seek oblivion through his caresses? My hand shot up to my throat, my fingers rubbing circles against the twin scars nested just above the spot where neck and shoulder met.
Desired: A Vampire Blood Courtesans Romance Page 3