I’m unrecognizable, even to myself.
Giuliano told the guards that I wasn’t permitted to go to Rome under any circumstance and normally I would have confronted him and argued my case.
But I don’t want to see him, at all, ever. And I’ll be damned if I’m giving him the satisfaction of asking for anything from him ever again. Least of all his fucking permission to go somewhere.
I cried myself to sleep last night, mourning the loss of the beautiful boy I once loved.
I don’t even know why his nastiness of late has affected me so much. It shouldn’t matter and I most definitely shouldn’t care.
That damn funeral is all to blame, I should never have gone, it seemed to bring up unresolved feelings I have toward him, ones that I have pushed to the side and carried deep within my heart for years.
But anyway, screw him, I have better things to do with my life than cry over hurtful words from a criminal. Who is he to judge me?
When I was young, he hated how my family treated me, how I wasn’t allowed out.
It’s ironic that he’s one of them now and is trying to do the exact same thing.
Karma will get him; my conscience is clear.
I put my clothes into a pink backpack and I throw it over my shoulder and look at myself in the mirror, I giggle and take a photo of myself.
This outfit is the living end.
Okay, here goes nothing. If I get past the guards, I have free rein to go to Rome by myself. I’ve told them that I’m working from home for the next three days and I’ve bought a ticket on a commercial flight, a hotel and have downloaded the Uber app.
Uber…eeek! Who even am I?
I had intended to leave in the middle of the night but then I figured that at that time nobody else will be around and I might stand out more. I take the elevator and walk out into the foyer and hang around a little until a group of ladies come walking out, I strategically loiter behind them as if I am a part of their group and follow them around the corner.
I keep my face forward, but my eyes are flicking toward my guards’ cars beneath my glasses. The boys are talking and laughing as they lean against one of the cars.
Please don’t let me get caught. Please don’t let me get caught.
Five more minutes.
We turn the corner and I roll my lips to hide my smile, I think I might actually do this. I break away from the ladies and cross the street and around another corner and call an Uber. I hold my breath as I wait for it to arrive and when it finally does, I jump into the back seat excitedly.
“Airport?” the driver says.
“Yes, please.” I beam with pride, I did it.
*
I walk into the ballroom with a folder under my arm, nerves firmly intact.
This is it, the most important meeting of my entire life.
As promised, I’m in Rome in the hotel we are about to refurbish. Wearing a fitted black dress and high heels with my long dark hair swept up into a high ponytail. I’m wearing natural makeup with my signature deep red lipstick. I hope I look the part.
A distinguished-looking man is waiting for me, he’s in his fifties and very handsome in his Armani suit. “Hello.” I smile nervously as I shake his hand. “Francesca Ferrara.”
“Hello, my dear.” He smiles, his eyes hold mine and a trace of a frown crosses his brow. “Ferrara…where are you from?”
“Milan.”
“Ah.” He smiles. “God’s country. I had a dear friend who lived in Milan, you aren’t any relation to the late Giuliano Ferrara, are you?”
“Yes,” I reply politely. “He was my father.”
“Really…he’s sorely missed.”
“Yes, he is.”
His eyes hold mine. “It’s lovely to meet you, Francesca.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I ask.
“I’m Vincenzo Carballo.”
“Hello.” I smile.
“Congratulations, your concepts blew your competition out of the water.”
“Thank you, I’m excited to get started. It really is going to be wonderful once completed,” I reply as I look around the grand ballroom, I can almost see the magazine spread already. I’m going to nail this refurb if it’s the last thing I do.
He gestures to the large double doors. “Shall we continue in my office?”
“Of course.” I grip my folder and follow him out, get into the elevator and the doors close.
“I thought your company was French?” he says.
“It is, I live in France.”
“Really?” He frowns. “A Ferrara who doesn’t live in Italy?”
“After my brother died, I went to live in Paris.”
“Enrico?”
“Yes.” The elevator doors open and he gestures to the corridor, we get out and walk down it. “You knew him?” I ask.
“No, I didn’t have the pleasure,” he replies as we get to a series of offices.
“But if…. You knew my father?” I ask, confused, they knew all the same people.
“Ah.” He shrugs. “I knew your father through work, unfortunately, I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing him personally.” He opens a door and reveals a huge office, it’s very old world. Dark green walls and walnut cabinetry. The desk in the center of the room is gigantic. It has a very dated feel in here, I need to refit this as well. Damn, this is one hell of a huge task.
“Where did you work?” I ask.
“I used to work for the football team he owned.”
“Oh” I smile as I connect the dots, that makes sense, Enrico had nothing to do with the football team. “I see.” I open my folder to reveal the black title page with gold letters.
Lux
“Are you ready to create the most luxurious glamorous hotels in the world, Mr. Carballo?” I ask playfully.
He leans back in his chair and smiles, seemingly impressed. “Bring it on.”
Three hours later I walk through the large foyer area and can hardly wipe the huge smile from my face. The meeting went better than my wildest dreams. Mr. Carballo is intelligent, stylish and completely in tune with my vision, I just can’t wait to get started. I’m working here again tomorrow as I order in materials that I need to be on-site for and then demolition work starts next week after the last of the guests check out on Sunday.
It no easy feat refurbishing a hotel, it has to be completely emptied and stripped bare. I push out through the double glass doors and look around and feel a rush of adrenaline.
Freedom.
No guards, for the first time in my life. I have no bodyguards and I love it.
I feel grown up and to be honest, I don’t think I even want security anymore.
I don’t need them, never once have I had an issue.
I walk down the street and peruse through the shops and I’m just in the best mood ever. Literally walking on air, I see a gelato shop up ahead and I make my way in to celebrate in style.
“Can I help you?” the cashier asks.
I look through the choices, I put my finger on the glass above the one I want. “Can I please have a single--” I pause. “Make that a double scoop of the decadent choc gelato in a wafer cone please?”
“Sure.” She grabs her scoop. “Would you like that dipped in hot chocolate?”