Page 34 of Isle of Beauty

When I get out of the car, I’m hit with the familiar scent of the lavender bushes. The gravel crunches under my shoes, a soundtrack for the moment when my life changes.

The weight on my shoulders is heavy, my heart feels like it’s about to beat off my chest. Yet I’ve never felt so elated, the pressure of this second is exactly what I need to take the steps that lead up to the front door.

I ring the bell without hesitation. There’s no space for it. I know why I’m here and what I have to do.

As I wait, the image of Lana comes to mind. I haven’t seen her since that photo. She’s embedded in my brain, chestnut waves of hair across off-white sheets, lush curves of creamy skin marked with ink against mine, the tattoos on her arms and back, her devouring that damn tiramisu like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. That brings images of her full pink lips wrapped around my cock and her doe-eyes looking up at me while she was on her knees for me.

I groan at the memory. It’s not the fucking moment to be hard.

I’m about to be reunited with Alessio Bartoli, father of the year, and all I can think about is the hottest blowjob of my life from a girl I barely know who left more than three years ago.

Get a fucking grip.

Just as I adjust myself in my pants, the door opens to a housemaid.

“I’m here to see Alessio.” My voice is cool and doesn’t leave room for negotiation but the maid hesitates. “Mr. Bartoli doesn’t receive visitors in his home, Sir.”

“I’m his son.”

The shock on her delicate features gives me hope the same will be plaster on my father’s face. No one’s expecting me, least of all him. Laughter bubbles up my throat at the knowledge that I’m cornering the great Alessio Bartoli, and I suppress it.

She motions for me to follow her and guide me through the house in silence, probably going against protocol by allowing me inside without being expected.

The house is cosier than I thought it would be and it makes me fume with fury. The man that hurt the most precious person I know lives comfortably while she struggled with depression all her life. I clench my fists at my side to the point of pain to avoid making any move I’d regret and giving myself away.

It’s an old family house with a closed floor plan but all the doors have been removed. That’s a change from my childhood. From the entrance hall, I can see the stairs leading to the first floor. On the right side is a large living room with a grey designer sofa in front of what looks like an open fire chimney, a large oak table dressed for dinner and a kitchen at the back. I catch a waft of roasted vegetables with rosemary that makes me salivate.

It’s so homey I want to throw up.

On the left of the entrance wall is the drawing room, bathed in golden light from the sunset. That was my mother’s favourite room in the house. She’d sit at the window and stare at the sun for hours while I played at her feet or did homework at a small table behind her. Both her settee and the table have been replaced with newer furniture. If I weren’t so bitter, I could almost admit the room looks even more inviting now.

Somehow, the fact that this house isn’t the house of my youth fuels my anger. I’m even more determined to make Alessio regret the day I was born. I’ll be his jury and executioner and he won’t see it coming.

As we continue to walk inside, I notice there’s actually one door left on the first floor and we’re headed that way. It’s closed.

That hasn’t changed.

The maid’s rasp on the door clears my thoughts.

“Come in.” His voice is low and raspy, nothing like I remember.

A cold chill crawls down my spine but the grin on my face is devious. I step in and close the door behind me. “Hello, father.”

Surprise flickers across Alessio’s face and he doesn’t even try to hide it behind a mask. I know not to trust anything that comes out of his treacherous mouth or any fake emotion he displays but I swallow hard. I didn’t expect him to smile at me like I hung the moon nor the cold kiss of doubt at the back of my mind.

“Figliolu.” His voice is a sigh, like I’m an answer to a prayer.

He rounds his desk and comes a few steps short of me, as if hesitating. He’s an inch smaller than I am and looks way older than I remember. This man I spent years hating just seems small and weathered now that I see him up close.

Almost three decades separate us but I kept tabs on him. I’m ashamed to admit I wanted to know what he was up to, where he travelled to. I hoped for a long time I’d intercept a secret visit to the UK so that I could confront him.

I did my best to make sure there was no way of escaping my success, my name in every financial review. I wanted guilt to eat at him as he saw the name of his biggest shame splattered around. Though I know he’s not capable of such emotion.

He closes the last remnant of the distance between us and takes my face into his hands. “Is it really you, Lisandru?”

I almost recoil at his touch. It’s years of working in a boardroom without emotions clouding my judgement that enables me to look at him as if with indifference. If he looks closer, he’ll see the fire in my eyes and a light grimace at the corner of my mouth.

I take his wrists and remove his hands from my face slowly. “Don’t call me that. I haven’t been your son in a long time. My name is Pierce.” My nostrils flare and venom infuses my every word. I have to clench my teeth to the point of pain not to throttle him.

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