Bad Boy
Scoundrels in Love
Matilda Martel
Copyright © 2020 by Matilda Martel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only. It must not be sold, shared, or given away.
Cover Design: Matilda Martel
Created with Vellum
For my friend, Andrea.
Contents
1. Franco
2. Carine
3. Carine
4. Franco
5. Carine
6. Franco
7. Carine
8. Franco
9. Carine
10. Carine
11. Franco
12. Carine
13. Franco
14. Carine
15. Franco
16. Carine
17. Epilogue- Six months later
18. Epilogue - Six Years Later
About the Author
Also by Matilda Martel
1
Franco
The sun pours in through a crack in my new solar block curtains and strategically lands on my eyes. Brutal light singes my retinas and shocks me awake. What time is it? I rub my forehead and squeeze my temples with my thumbs. My heart hammers in my chest. My head throbs, my mouth tastes like shit, my tongue clicks, and my lips feel glued together.
As always, I pray for the ache to go away. It’s useless. I don’t deserve these small mercies and God stopped listening long ago. I’ve lost favor and he’s got much more pressing concerns than my hangovers.
I glance at the clock. It’s 12:20. Fuck. I missed work.
Why the hell did I take that stupid bet? My brother knows exactly how to bait me, but I’m the moron who can’t walk away from a challenge. Thanks to him and my fragile ego, I missed a 10:00 meeting with my father. It’s the third this month and it’s too late to call with a lame excuse.
He’s gonna read me the riot act as soon as I see him, but I’m in no mood to hear it now. Too tired to crawl out of bed and close the curtain, I flip over and throw the blanket over my head. Seconds later, I toss it off, gasping for air. It’s too hot. I can’t breathe. I punch the pillow, flip to my stomach then turn on my back again. This room is too bright but if I get up, it’s over. I’ll never get back to sleep.
I need water, but I need sleep more.
With a heavy breath, I roll out of bed and stagger into the bathroom. I think I’m dying. My old man is right. I’m too old to keep doing this to my body. I’ll be thirty-five in two days and most of my friends are still in their twenties. There’s no way to keep up with them. I fight like hell all night to stay at their pace, only to wind up being the idiot who pays the bill.
Now, look at me. I’m hours late for work and too dizzy to stay upright while I piss. How the hell does my mouth feel so dry when I have this much fluid in my body?
After two glasses of water, three Advil and a splash of cold water on my face, I trudge into the kitchen to look for an antacid and something with ginger. I typically have a cabinet stocked with home remedies for hangovers, but I’ve blown through much of my supplies this past week. I’m not taking this birthday well. Thirty-five is big. Every time I think about it, I want to punch the wall and pull my hair out. Figuratively, of course.
My hair is awesome.
I know I’m not where I’m supposed to be, and I love to pretend it’s no big deal. If forty is the new thirty, then thirty-five is the new twenty-five. Right? Whatever. I’m five short years to forty and in two months I’ll be sitting pretty in front of all the Bianchis and Russos at my baby brother’s wedding like the biggest fucking loser in Brooklyn.
Little shit is twenty-eight-years old and he’s making me look like a bigger dickhead than I already feel. Who the hell does he think he is? My father’s convinced he’s a saint. He’s not. He’s worse than me. He’s just better at hiding it.
By this time next year, he’ll show me up again and produce the first grandchild. Then, I’ll be the loser uncle baptizing his baby. God forbid, they have twins. I’ll never catch up.
Jesus Christ, just kill me already.
I hang my head and search for my phone. Eighteen texts and seven missed calls. The old man must be furious. I swore the last time was the last time. Pacing across the floor, nibbling on a piece of stale bread, I search my mind for a plausible excuse. Nothing feels credible. I’ll bet Vince showed up to work and ratted me out. Fucking Judas.
While I scroll through my messages, a loud noise startles me. The front door swings open and slams against the wall. Freaked out, I jump back and reach for a knife.
It’s worse than I thought. It’s not a break in. It’s my father.
“For crying out loud, it’s almost 1:00 in the afternoon, and you’re still in your fucking underwear?!” He bursts through the foyer, and heads straight into the kitchen.
“Dad, I was just...” He doesn’t interrupt me. I don’t even try to finish or defend myself. I’m a grown man. A useless man, hungover in his boxers in front of his father. And he’s not alone. He’s brought lawyers. Son of a bitch. The old man is finally cutting me off.
“Save it, Franco. I’m only glad your mother isn’t alive to see you like this.” He tosses a newspaper detailing my recent arrest for public intoxication and assault. I glance at the paper and cringe at the photo they used. Charges were dropped. The other asshole threw the first punch, but he didn’t make headlines. I did.
“Would you please stop saying that? I’d prefer if my mother was alive today. I didn’t start drinking like this until after her death.” I head for my bedroom.
“Where the hell are you going?” He yells.
“Let me grab a shirt before you lecture the shit out of me in front of your lackeys.” I ignore his grumbles and return to find my father pacing furiously with rolled-up sleeves and a sweaty face.
He looks like he wants to punch me.
“What’s wrong with you? Don’t you have any pride? Any self-respect? Vince is seven years younger and he’s two months from getting married at St. James Cathedral. He found a good Catholic girl from Brooklyn like my Teresa.
Do you have any idea how happy it would have made your mother to see Vincenzo marry at the freaking Basilica? We couldn’t marry there. She was pregnant with you!” He rants and punches my arm.
My jaw drops. Is this senile old man blaming me for my mother’s ill-timed pregnancy? I’m outraged. Prick knocked her up weeks after they met. Poor Mom. The spoiled little rich boy from Manhattan embarrassed her in front of her family and friends when they were forced to marry at City Hall.
“Why the hell are you blaming me? You’re the one who couldn’t keep your damn hands off my mother!” I push him, grab my water and take a seat.
He wrings his hands and stifles an awkward smile. “It wasn’t like that, son. We were in love. You’ve never been in love before. You’ll understand one day. Your mother made me crazy.”
I narrow my eyes and lift my hand. “Please stop. I’m already sick to my stomach. As far as I’m concerned, my mother was a saint who allowed you to take advantage of her twice. I don’t want to hear anything else, old man.”
“She was a beautiful soul, not only a beautiful woman. Meeting her was the best thing that ever happened to me. Even with all the heartbreak I had to endure losing her so young, I wouldn’t change a thing.” He sighs and slumps into his seat.
I sit quietly and wait for him to continue. He seems to be going somewhere and any interruptions will only prolong his visit. I n
eed to get back to bed. My head is killing me.
“Marriage isn’t a prison, son. By the time I was your age, your mother and I were married over a decade and I had both my boys. I know you took her death hard. We all did. But enough is enough. You can’t continue on the path you’ve chosen. I won’t allow it.” He shakes his head and nods to his favorite lawyer, Nick Fiore. The bony sycophant hands him a sheet of paper.
My heart sinks. No way is he cutting me loose. I know I’m a screw-up, but I still know way more about his business than stupid Vince.
I open my mouth to let him have it, but he raises his hand to silence me.
“I don’t want to hear it. It’s my money and I’ll do whatever pleases me. If I want to give it all away to the church, I will.” He chides.
“You inherited everything from Nonno and the church has enough money. How can you threaten your own son?” I growl through gnashed teeth. If he asks me to sign something, I’ll to throw him out. This apartment is mine. My grandfather left it to me in name.
“Well, now it’s mine. And this isn’t a threat. This is a suggestion. I want to make you an offer.” He smirks.
“Cut that out. You’re not in the mob.” I roll my eyes and scoot to the edge of my seat.
“Just hear me out. This could be in both our best interests.”
2
Carine
“Holy Mary, mother of God, what have you done?” I cringe and clutch my heart. Seconds after I arrive at my parent’s home, I hear a primal wail emerge from my mother’s crumpled body as she lies prone on her favorite Turkish rug. Above her, my father paces and dials his phone. Next to them both, my older sister, Clarisse, files her nails and looks out of place in this world of horror and despair. I ask her again, knowing she’s the culprit, but she ignores me to blow dust off her precious fingers.
“Thank goodness your home, sweetheart.” My father waves me over and points to the couch across from Clarisse. I drop my purse on the table and kneel to check on my mother. She continues to weep. Someone’s life is over. I’m not sure if it’s hers or Clarisse’s.
“Daddy? What’s happened? You’re scaring me.” I ask my father as I drag my mother to the loveseat. Her mascara’s smeared. Her hair is tousled. But her Chanel suit remains pressed and perfect. I don’t know how she does it.
“Angel, I’ll be right with you. Your mother and I are taking you to lunch.” He tries to smile but his attempt is cut short when his eyes shift to my mother.
“For heaven’s sake Adelaide, freshen up. You look insane.” He then turns his attentions to my sister.
“Clarisse Helene DuBois, if you don’t get out of my sight right now, I’ll send you to live with your cousins in France!” He turns red when my sister’s face lights up.
“Little girl, I’m not sending you to Paris. I’ll send you into the Alps. Go upstairs until I figure out what to do about your situation.... Now!“ He rubs his forehead and sinks down next to me.
“How are you, dumpling? Have you found a better job, yet? I wish you’d let me put in a good word. What’s the point of having a congressman for a father if he can’t put in a good word?” He leans in for a side hug and kisses my temple.
“Daddy, that’s nepotism. You sent me to a good school, paid my tuition and help pay for my apartment. You can’t bully people to hire me. But enough stalling, what happened? Why are you angry with Clarisse?” I clasp my hands and expect the worst. It’s always bad with Clarisse. Shameful. Earth-shattering. But Daddy’s used to her shenanigans. If he’s this upset, it must be horrible.
“Pumpkin...” He pauses, then closes his eyes and exhales slowly, as if the next few words will be too painful to pronounce.
“Daddy! Out with it.” I tug on his jacket sleeve.
“Pumpkin, your sister is pregnant.” He slumps in his seat and slams his palms to his forehead.
I cover my mouth to stifle the loud gasp I can’t contain. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! When? How?” I know how, but I’m stunned.
He nods. “Three months. She told us this morning. Your mother wanted to call the priest to arrange a quick wedding, but fortunately I made her hold off until we knew more.”
I knit my brow and shake my head. “But Daddy, you’re going to be a grandfather. This isn’t a bad thing. It’s a blessing. Clarisse is twenty-four-years-old. She isn’t sixteen. She can marry and lie low during your re-election. Don’t get wrapped up in the negative side. I’d hate for you to be sad if I told you I was expecting.” I wiggle his knee and smile.
He wants to laugh. I giggle and stab a finger into his rib to help it along. I see a smile creeping out of the corners of his mouth and then out of the blue, the light in his eyes disappears.
“It’s not that, Carine. Your sister can’t marry anyone. She has no idea who the father is. She’s narrowed it down to five men, but she can’t be any more specific than that.”
“What? Five?” I mumble and feel my hand rise to touch my forehead.
“Five... that she remembers...”
His voice trails off as the room goes black.
3
Carine
I can’t believe I fainted. Daddy tells me it took four rough shakes and the neighbor’s smelling salts to wake me up.
“Are you sure you’re okay, sweetheart?” My mother holds my hand and pats it gently.
I nod and take a sip of club soda. They stare oddly at me. This is beyond the fainting. This reminds me of the time I was eight years old and they took me out for ice cream only to inform me I needed to boycott my best friend’s birthday party because her father had endorsed Daddy’s opponent.
Something’s fishy.
“Something needs to be done about Clarisse, honey. This is far worse than the DUI or the public nudity arrest. You can’t hide a baby, Carine.” He gulps down his whiskey and slams the glass on the table.
I look back and forth, confused. “I know you can’t hide a baby, but as you both know, it’s not mine to hide. Why did you bring me here? You aren’t suggesting I take Clarisse to France, are you? I have work, Daddy. Maybe it’s low level, but I can’t leave the country just because she needs a companion.”
We don’t get along. I annoy her.
They grimace in unison, cast a quick glance at one another and nudge elbows. Neither wants to go first. It’s worse than I thought. And whatever it is, I don’t want to find out. I reach for my purse, sling it over my shoulder and shimmy down the booth like a bat out of hell. I almost make it, but they join forces and thwart my escape.
“Sweetheart, calm down. This is a favor. All we need is a favor.” My father’s voice drops an octave as he slides in next to me and cages me in between him and my mother.
“A favor?” I question, suspiciously. The only time they pay any attention to me is when they need something big.
“You’ve met my friend, Lorenzo Bianchi. Great man. Great family.” He lies through his teeth. He uses Mr. Bianchi for his money. He wouldn’t be caught dead at one of his high society functions in the company of anyone in the Bianchi family.
It’s despicable.
I nod and call the waiter. I have a feeling I’ll need something stronger than club soda to get through this ambush. “Can you bring me some hot tea? Peppermint tea, please. Thank you.”
They lower their voices, then continue.
“Carine, he’s an important man.” My mom interjects.
“If he’s such a good friend and he’s so important, why don’t you ever have him over for dinner?” I casually ask while I pour my tea. They look baffled by my question. He could buy and sell them, but he’s not fit to grace their doorway. My blood boils. I love my family, but I hate this side.
“You’re getting me off topic, angel. This is important. You’re familiar with Lorenzo’s sons” He throws me an awkward smile that unsettles my stomach. I take a sip of tea to soothe my nerves before I answer.
“Vince? Sure. He’s a sweetheart. He invited me to his wedding. I don’t know Franco. Why?” I lie and
crease my brow. Where is this going? This is maddening.
“You’ve met Franco many times. Everyone knows Franco Bia…” He hesitates then leans in and studies my face. Out of nowhere, my mother grabs my hand.
“Carine, you’ll break that cup. You’re stirring your tea like a maniac and drawing attention to the table.” My mother takes my spoon, and both wait for my answer.
“Franco. It’s been years. I don’t think I’ve seen him since before I left for college. He means nothing to me. Leave me alone.” I choke out the words and take a quick sip tea. I don’t want to talk about Franco. I don’t want to hear about Franco. I don’t want to go to Vince’s wedding for fear I’ll run into stupid Franco.
This one-sided feud’s been brewing for years. He’s oblivious.
I remember it like it was yesterday. I was sixteen, naïve of men, and dumb enough to let my parents persuade me to attend that ridiculous debutante’s ball. I should have known I’d feel like prized pony. From the moment I arrived, all I did was search the room for exits. I had to get out of the sea of petticoats, white satin dresses and fake smiles.
Then I saw him. Franco Bianchi.
Gorgeous. Dark eyes, black wavy hair, olive skin, tall and powerful. None of the other boys looked like him. Goodness, no. Not in my circles. Franco was magnificent. Perfection. The personification of a Roman god. Instead of darting downstairs and making my planned escape, I ran into the ladies’ room to freshen my makeup and lift my boobs.
I felt something bigger than myself. Something leading me towards this man. I always knew I’d find my husband and start my family young. I’d lit candles, prayed novenas and God didn’t keep me waiting.
Bad Boy Page 1