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I stood over him, winding up for another blow. “Good night, Tommy.”
Tommy Peronne was light work. An appetizer for everything else I have going on. I spent the next day busy in more contract negotiations with Saul Rosenbaum, his lawyers and my lawyers. That night I slept in the room I had built in my office, which serves as an off-the-cuff bedroom whenever I’m too deep in shit to make it home.
It’s been two days since I left Falynn behind after our dispute over the industry party. I sit in my executive office, withdrawing my phone to check my long list of notifications, when the doors burst open.
“Boss, you haven’t checked your phone, have you?” Dominico asks.
“That’s what I’m doing now,idiota. Yet here you are interrupting me.”
“Some chick’s on social media spreading rumors about you. She’s saying you hooked up with her.”
Few things take me by surprise these days, as I’m calculated enough to predict almost every possibility of what’s happening in my life and empire. For once, this turn of events takes me by surprise. I sit up in my large office chair and pin Dominico with a scolding stare.
“Some chick? What some chick? If this is your idea of a joke, Dom, you need lessons from Louis. At least his comedy was funny, if not sometimes corny.”
“Boss, this chick is saying you fucked. She looks like the girl from the party.”
“The bitch who sat on my lap?”
“There’spics. See for yourself.”
I do. I bring up some of the sources Dominico’s citing. Some stupid gossip blog where they post about the goings-on of the elite. In the split second the dumb bimbo sat on my lap, somebody snapped a photo; somebody sent it anonymously to the blog owners. To add insult to injury, the bimbo—whose name is apparently Sofia Golino—went on her social media to brag about an imaginary night we spent together.
“For fuck’s sake,” I swear, my jaw clenched hard. “Whose texts are these? Is this bitch crazy?”
“She must’ve doctored them,” Dominico says, leaning over for a peek at my phone. “That’s all the rage these days. These girls do this for clout…or so I hear. It keeps people talking about them if they think they’re sleeping with rich and famous men.”
“I don’t have time for this bullshit. Set this plastic bitch straight. Pay her a visit and scare the shit out of her. Make it clear if she doesn’t stop, she will wind up in a bed at the hospital.”
Normally, I don’t go after women. I’d much rather beat the shit out of the men in their lives—a boyfriend, a brother, a father, any male that matters to them. But if this bitch thinks for a second she’s going to use my name in her pursuit of internet fame, then she has another thing coming. She’ll be disposed of immediately.
Dominico takes his orders with a serious nod and marches out of my office. I pinch the bridge of my nose, a throbbing headache already on the way. There’s too much on my plate to have to worry about some dumb prostitute trying to attach herself to meandruin my marriage. If the thousands of likes and views are any indication, it’s going viral.
Which means Falynn already knows. I sigh and get up from my chair. I have no choice but to break my schedule and delay my plans and go home in the middle of the day.
“Mister Sorrentino,” Carlotta huffs the second I walk through the door. She dogs the footsteps of my long stride despite hers being half in length.
That’s the thing about Carlotta—she’s probably the most determined and stubborn woman to ever live. I hired her years ago when Falynn and I initially began trying to conceive. Once a caretaker in Pa’s household when I was growing up, Carlotta represents a lot of old memories from my past. When Ma was no longer around, Carlotta filled that motherly space.
I respect and trust her, though sometimes she’s too much to handle.
“You’ve been gone for days!” she lectures, following me up the grand staircase. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been dealing with since you’ve been gone? What your wife has been up to?”
I round on her halfway up the stairs. “Carlotta, your job is to look after Falynn. Have you not been doing your job properly?”
“Porca miseria, don’t you dare turn this on me!” She wags a dainty, shriveled finger at me, her face crinkling with angry lines. “You leave me with a woman who can barely find the energy to get out of bed and you think it’s because of me?”
“You said Falynn was adjusting—”
“How many times do I have to tell you? The girl is struggling!”
“Falynn is well taken care of.”
Carlotta grunts, shaking her head. “Luxury isn’t the only way to take care of a woman.”
I leave Carlotta ranting on the staircase and finish the path leading up to the master bedroom. Carlotta may have a point, but I’ve explained many times to Falynn why I’m gone often, and how running the family takes most of my time.
What we’ve been through over the past few years hasn’t been easy. The treatments and let-downs have taken their toll. It’s still no excuse to disobey the rules that have been clearly laid out. I have enough stressful things on my plate without my wife throwing a hissy fit like a fucking toddler when she doesn’t get her way.
