Nicco

Ch. 1: Blood On My Armani

WARNING: This story contains mature themes, strong language, and depictions of violence that may be upsetting for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

NICCO

Ring! Ring! Ring!

Loud, incessant chiming echoes through my bedroom, interrupting my dreams. I am not ready to be pulled from sleep. A groan slips out as I bury my face into the pillow.

Dio santo.

Make it fucking stop.

As if on cue, the rings fall silent.

Grazie a Dio.

I rejoice too soon. My phone quiets for all but two seconds before the trilling starts again.

Ring! Ring! Ring!

Both eyes flick open. My vision adjusts. Darkness floods the floor-to-ceiling windows that wrap around my penthouse apartment. The city lights of London remain ever-bright. Even the moon has yet to fade from view. Annoyance pricks me.

What kind of asshole calls before the sun comes up on a goddamn Saturday?

I am not in the mood to deal with this nonsense. I have been out all night, thanks to a delightful redhead named—

Shit.

What was her name again?

Sleep deprivation clouds my mind. I cannot remember, but the muscles in my body have not forgotten her. I feel deliciously sore. The redhead and I fucked for several rounds. Nonstop. I really should be sound asleep right now. Recharging.

But the asshole won't give up.

Ring! Ring! Ring!

Scowling, I grab my phone with every intention of switching it to silent mode until I see the caller ID.

Porca puttana.

The asshole is my father.

I cannot bring myself to ignore Papà. Famiglia is famiglia even when they are being a fucking pain in the ass. Irritably, I answer the phone and grunt into the receiver, "You better have a good fucking reason for calling at 4-fucking-am."

Papà explains brightly, "Mamma and I returned from our trip to New York last night. I admit, I am still a bit jetlagged. Since I could not sleep, I decided to check in with my beloved son."

"Well, as you can tell, I am alive and well and definitely not jetlagged. May I please go back to sleep?"

"Not so fast. We are only getting started here."

I grumble, "What do you want, Papà?"

"Bleekman resigned two weeks ago."

Thomas Bleekman is, no, was a department manager at Jackson & James, one of the banks our family owns in London.

Irritation shifts to suspicion. "What does his resignation have to do with me?"

"I was hoping you could step in until we find a replacement."

Cazzo.

I should have known that Papà would not give up. He has been wanting to shackle me to a life of corporate misery since I graduated from Cambridge. That was four years ago. I am pleased to say that, over the past four years, Papà has been losing this cat-and-mouse game we play while I have been gallivanting all over the world. Fucking willing women. Driving fast cars. Living my best life.

Nicco—4.

Papà—0.

Unlike the rest of mia famiglia, my accomplishments are, by choice, few and far between. Papà runs multimillion-dollar businesses. Mamma is a surgeon. Viviana can shoot down a moving target as skillfully as she plays the piano. I, however, see no need to strive for excellence. It is unnecessary. To be born a Vitale is a blessing enough. At the age of twenty-six, I am already set for life. I will inherit a billion-dollar empire without having to lift a finger.