My father is what I like to call a hypocritically traditional Italian man. For him, a woman is only as good as her child bearing abilities, his current wife—the love of his life—included. The only education required is the ability to read, write and hold a grammatically correct conversation in a few languages. Enough to play the perfect hostess, but not enough to get strange, enlightened ideas.
Of course, that doesn't stop him from using me to achieve his goals.
For years now our family has suffered financial losses because of an ongoing conflict with another Italian family. That has prompted my father to look for connections and potential business partners outside our normal sphere of influence. So he's crafted a plan to insinuate himself into the high society circles of Manhattan. And what better way to do it than use me?
And so my enrollment at the academy was all for status, since my father knew that other rich kids would attend, so he wanted me to make friends in high places. When it comes to the actual education I'm getting at the academy? I'm only enrolled in the basic courses that give me enough credits to graduate, but not to do much else.
In a world where college admissions are cutthroat, where students break their backs taking courses on top of courses just to get a tiny advantage over the others, I'm simply a failure. With my credentials, my only hope would be a community college. And while I'd take that in a heartbeat, it's completely out of the question.
I'm free, yet trapped. The worst paradox possible, because I can feel the taste of freedom, but I'm doomed to never truly get it.
For girls in my family, even completing high school is a luxury. The only available stage after that is marriage.
Being a wife. A mother. No one.
"I still have a few months," I whisper to myself as I enter the bookstore.
Since my father looks down on women getting an education, he'd have an apoplexy if he knew I was here, looking at books that are decidedly not for an assignment. It's also the reason why Manuello was reluctant to take me to the bookstore in the first place, since he has to report it back to my father.
Knowing that time is precious, I simply lose myself among the many rows of books, finding some interesting ones and quickly perusing them. Since I know I can't buy anything that might raise suspicions, I simply take pictures of the pages with my phone, leaving everything for later when I'm alone in my room.
Thirty minutes pass quickly, and I find myself again in the car, this time going back home. Knowing I don't have to interact with more people puts me more at ease, and I finally let myself relax.
But everything is short-lived because the moment I enter the house, Cosima's screeching voice resounds in my ears.
"Gianna!" she yells, coming towards me at full force. I blink twice and before I know it her palm makes contact with my cheek, the force of it making me reel back. "What did Mrs. Dumont tell me? You refused her invitation to the Hamptons? When you know how much your father and I need their support," she continues with a barrage of insults, all aimed at me and my useless self.
I ball my hands into fists, feeling my temper rise too.
"Why don't you get your own invitation then?" I ask, tilting my head to the side and regarding her with disgust. "Oh, wait, you can't," I scoff. "Because they don't mix with trash, do they?"
"Wh-what?' she sputters, her eyes going wide.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," I smirk at her. "They would never mingle with a second-rate actress who was a mistress before a wife. You think they don't know?" Satisfaction blooms in my chest when I see her react to my words.
"They whisper about you, you know?" I continue, my voice low and calm. "They call you a home-wrecker. Not that it's not true." I shrug, leaning back and watching the successful delivery of my jibe.
I make to move past her, but she wraps her fingers around my wrist, pulling me back, her arm stretched in the air and ready to slap me again. This time I see it coming, so I stop her hand mid-air, pushing it backwards.
She stumbles a few steps, her eyes shooting daggers at me.
"You? You dare insult me when you're nothing else than a little slut," she starts just as I'm about to leave again. "Just like your mother," she adds, her voice dripping with malice.
I don't know what comes over me, but as I turn on my heel, my fingers clenched together, I simply let my fist fly to her face.
She gasps, her gaze full of hatred before it suddenly morphs into one of distress, tears making their way down her cheeks.
I frown at the sudden change, but it doesn't take long for me to figure out why.
"Gianna!" My father's voice booms from behind.
I watch stupefied as Cosima runs to my father, jumping in his arms and crying her eyes out.
"I just..." she says, sobbing, her words barely coherent, "wanted her to reconsider the Hamptons trip." Lies drip from her tongue as she paints herself the victim and me the assailant.
"Gianna, how could you hit your mother?"
"Mother?" I spit in disbelief. "She's not my mother. Now or ever." I shake my head at him, unable to believe he'd side with her.
But then he always does, doesn't he? It's in the tiny gestures, the way he always values her words more, her well-being more important than mine.
"Gianna! Apologize to her immediately!" He raises his voice, and the hairs on my arm stand up.
"No," I shake my head. "I won't."
"You will." His eyes narrow at me while Cosima smiles conspiratorially in his chest.
"No," I say with more conviction.
"Then you'll be grounded," he decrees, and I hide a smile.
Little does he know that being grounded isn't all that bad.
"But Tommy is holding a party on Friday," I reply in a fake voice, waiting for him to prohibit me from going.
He pauses for a minute as he thinks about it.
"You'll go to Tommy's, but aside from that you go to school and back home."
My eyes widen in shock. For a moment I'd been happy thinking I'd have an excuse not to go to that stupid party. But of course my father wouldn't miss an opportunity to pimp me out and profit off my social connections.
I don't even reply as I turn and dash to my room, my entire body trembling with unreleased tension. And the frustration only increases as I start thinking of the bleak days ahead.
"You should put on some lipstick. Your lips are too pale." I advise Lindsay as she's putting the finishing touches on her makeup.
"I don't think so. I like how it looks like this" she pouts, puckering her lips and sucking in her cheeks as she checks her face from every angle. She's added so much powder that her face has a sickly hue to it.
I shrug. "Not my business if you look like a corpse in those neon lights."
"Don't mind her," Anna says as I move back, assessing my own makeup. "You know she always finds something wrong." She casually throws the jibe.
I don't reply. Instead, I take out a red lipstick from my bag, carefully applying it to my lips.
"Besides, red is her signature," she continues, her tone changing slightly. "She likes her dick to look bloody by the time she's done with it," she chuckles.
I merely glance over at her, arching an eyebrow. I knew she was going to go for that. Just like I know she can never help the way her envy seeps through her nice façade.
"You would know," I shrug. "Since you always help yourself to my sloppy seconds." I smile sweetly at her, batting my lashes. Satisfaction brims inside of me as I watch her expression change from smugness to outrage.
"Wh-what..." she sputters.
"Oh, come on, Anna," Lindsay closes her eyeshadow palette, placing it on the desk and turning to face us. "Everyone knows you two are like Eskimo sisters," she giggles.
"It's not my fault that they come to me once they see how frigid Miss Perfect is." Anna gives me a challenging look, the corner of her lip trembling as she tries hard not to smirk at her own statement.
"How is it my fault if they don't know how to get me hot?" I as
k in a feigned pleasant tone.
It's not the first time we've had arguments on the topic. Of course, they're never actual arguments. They are all friendly discussions where we covertly insult each other.
After all, it's well known that Anna goes after whatever guy shows an interest in me. I've never cared about what she does or who she fucks, just as I have never cared if she took on the whole male population for a gang bang. Good riddance then, since they would stop bothering me.
Standing up, I head to the mirror to arrange my outfit.
The dress is uncomfortably short, barely covering my ass and molding to my body in a tight fit—uncomfortably tight.
But I can only act how it's expected of me. I am, after all, Miss Perfect. I almost roll my eyes at that thought, and with a last tug at the dress, I tell the girls I'm ready to go.
In this circle, you're only someone if you show up to events. Everything hinges on being seen out and about, socializing and networking. It is, after all, the reason I'm always present to these parties.
My father has made it clear that he expects me to pave the way for him to reach his business contacts, and more often than not, his financial successes have occurred because I'd smiled and flirted with potential investors, or befriended someone whose parents owned entire chains of luxury stores.
He was pimping me alright, but he just didn't want to call it that way.
Networking. It's all networking.
Ready for the evening and with the girls dressed in equally short or even shorter dresses than me, we get into a limo and head to Tommy's place.
The son of an internationally acclaimed fashion designer and a supermodel, Tommy lives in an apartment right off Fifth Avenue. While not exactly a penthouse, the apartment stretches over two levels and six bedrooms. Perfect for parties, drugs, and underage drinking.
My fingers tighten over my small purse, mentally going over all the items inside to make sure I haven't forgotten anything.
Because even if one thing is missing... I'm screwed.
Convinced that everything is in place, I do my best to listen to Lindsay and Anna's inane chatter.
The car soon pulls into the underground party, and we are ushered directly into the private elevator taking us to the apartment.
It's not much later that the doors open, loud music and stringent lights filtering in. We step inside, and there are already people dancing right and left.
"I need a drink." Lindsay mutters as she leaves us in the middle of the room to head to the kitchen where someone is already serving hefty doses of jungle juice.
"We should say hi to Tommy." I add, already heading towards the living room, knowing I'm likely to find him there.
My connection to Tommy is feeble at best. We go to the same academy and maybe we've interacted a few times in the past. Given his parents' occupation in the art field, my father has never pushed me for a deeper relationship.
Tommy is not a bad person, if one overlooked the fact that nine times out of ten he's high out of his mind. Even now, as I enter the room, throngs of people coming and going, I immediately spot him on a couch, bent over the desk as he's snorting cocaine.
He barely notices me when I offer some pleasantries, his eyes completely glazed.
Job done, I move around the apartment, trying to find a less crowded space to spend the next couple of hours until I can go home.
The balcony is the only place that's a little quieter, and so I prop myself against the railing, taking out my phone and connecting to the Wi-Fi.
Another perk of having a controlling father is the fact that I can't access most websites at home. After all, they would only give me strange ideas not befitting of the daughter of an Italian don. But my father is a hypocrite like that. He doesn't bat an eye at pimping me out to get his prized connections, but is instantly incensed should I know more than I'm allowed to.
Biddable.
Because if I knew more, then he wouldn't be able to control me anymore.
Aware that my time is limited, I try to download as many free books as I can, since if I paid for something educational he would be able to tell from my card statement—which he closely monitors.
After all, for all our show of money, we're not swimming in it. Far from it, which is why he's desperately been looking to get me a husband.
I'm focused on my phone when I feel someone poking me from the side.
Scrunching my nose, I look up into the face of one of the most disgusting human beings I've ever had the displeasure of knowing—Max Connor.
I want to gag just finding myself in such proximity to him, and especially as the smell of alcohol coming from his breath drifts towards me, I can't help but take a step back.
"There you are, GG," he slurs, coming even closer to me.
"Go find someone else to bother," I say flippantly. "Loser," I mutter under my breath.
He doesn't seem to get the message as he crowds me in the corner of the balcony, his gaze a mix of malice and lust that makes my skin crawl with disgust.
"Oh, come on, G. I know all about you." His breath is suddenly on my face, that awful smell invading my nostrils.
"Get lost," I push against him, moving to go back to the house.
Max Connor has never been one to take no for an answer, evidence being the many times I've had to reject his advances.
But just as I bump into him when I try to maneuver my way out, his hand shoots out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist and pushing me back.
My back connects with the glass railing.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Come on, G. I know you want this," he trails his nose down the side of my face, inhaling.
Suddenly my annoyance turns to fear as my heart starts beating loudly in my chest. His touch is enough to detonate the self-destruct mode—the only mode my body knows. And my bravery slowly fades away, replaced with revulsion, dread, and panic.
"Take your fucking hands off me," I push against him in another attempt to move away.
"You're suck a cock tease. You think I don't know you've fucked half the people here? What's one more, huh? You know I've wanted between those sweet thighs of yours for a long time." I don't let him finish as I bring my hand up, slapping him across the face.
"Fuck off."
"Feisty. I like it," he smirks. "Fuck but I bet that pussy's just as fiery as the rest of you. That's how you drive everyone crazy. That's how you drive me crazy," he rasps, and a sickening feeling forms in the pit of my stomach.
His grip tightens over my wrist as he brings my hand over his crotch, thrusting into my palm and letting me feel his erection.
What was the start of a small attack mounts into a full-blown panic as he continues to whisper all the things he'd like to do to me.
No... Not again.
Momentarily stuck, it only takes me one flashback of what could actually happen for me to go into fight or flight mode.
Raising my knee, I don't even think as I aim it straight at his dick, hitting as hard as I can while wrenching my hand free from him. He stumbles back, hunched over in pain.
But I can't stop.
I bring my foot up, my heel directed at him as I simply push it to his crotch. There's this sick need inside of me that wants me to make sure he won't be able to recover and come after me. That he won't be able to hurt me.
And so even while he's down, I keep on stomping on him, his cries of pain and the sound of my tears drowned by the loud music.
It's only when a little bit of clarity makes its way into my mind that I realize I need to leave. I need to get away from the crowd. I need...
My breathing is harsh as I feel my pulse pick up, my mind fogging with what I know is an incoming attack.
I barely make it to the bathroom in time, locking myself inside and spilling the contents of my stomach in the toilet.
I heave and heave until nothing comes out anymore, but still, my pulse won't quiet.
The voices in my head won't quiet.
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Leaning back against the cold tile, I bring my hands over my arms, my nails digging in my skin as I search to cleanse his touch from me.
He touched me.
He touched me.
He fucking touched me.
It's like I'm in a trance as my unblinking eyes focus on a small spot on the wall, my breathing out of control as I keep on replaying the events of the evening.
He fucking touched me.
There's a reason why I avoid interacting with people like the plague. There's a reason I can't be in a crowded place. And there's a reason why I can't even eat with people present.
"I need to calm down," I mutter to myself, my arms going around my body in a shield, trying to separate myself from the events of tonight.
But seeing that my attempts are in vain, that my mind still feels foggy, the tension in my temples throbbing and culminating in a lump in my throat, I carelessly grab at my bag, spilling the contents on the floor and picking up the small pouch with pills.
On shaky legs, I raise myself to the sink to chase the pill with water.
Then I just wait for it to take effect.
Bracing myself on the sink, I stare into the mirror at my tear-streaked face, and my smeared red lipstick and I'm suddenly reminded of that night again.
Only then it had been worse. Way worse.
Chapter Three
Splashing some water on my face, I take a deep breath as I open my eyes to see my destroyed features staring back at me in the mirror. Not for the first time, I want to look away, pretend that the last five years never happened. That I didn't change.
But I can't. Not when the evidence is right in front of me.
I still remember the night I'd woken up with strangers in my cell, hulking men holding me down on my bunk while someone wielded a knife in front of my face. I guess I should be lucky he'd only given me a new look instead of taking an eye–or two. The fact that I still have my sight should make me grateful that I escaped that hell. That I survived.
As my eyes flicker over the harsh ridges of my scar, the slash starting from my hairline and going down my chin in a diagonal line, I can only see the change–both on the outside and on the inside. It's the latter that concerns me the most because there's a violence inside of me that wants to be let out. A need to wreck everything around me in a maddening show of destruction. Because the truth is, I don't know how to be normal anymore.
Frivolous: A DARK MAFIA AGE-GAP ROMANCE Page 3