Page 3 of Frayed Bonds

“It has. I’m sorry I was so terrible at staying in contact after I left.”

I was horrible at staying in contact with anyone and everyone once Mattheo came into the picture and I hate myself every day for allowing him to keep me away from so many people who cared for me.

He chuckles and lets me go, glancing at my features. “Life gets hectic sometimes I get it, I’m just glad you’re home again.”

Antonio Vitale is the youngest son of multi-billionaire Luciano Vitale and the youngest-ever CFO of Vitale Holdings – a financial firm here in Tevici. That’s who he is to every news outlet in the world but to me? He is Nino, my best friend and an absolute art nerd. Up until before I left for Paris, we were practically inseparable. But after I left for art school and he started working up the ranks of his family’s business – following in his brother's footsteps – things changed.

To everyone else, he was just another boy with rich parents. Nino and I genuinely bonded in high school during art classes. Turns out he truly did have a passion for art despite my first assumptions; it was just hidden behind insecurities and the incorrect medium. Antonio’s strengths lay in pencil sketches, and not in the oil paints he tried to desperately throw himself into.

“I’m here to pick up some cannolis. I didn’t expect to run into one of Italy’s most eligible bachelors,” I say, and he immediately rolls his eyes.

“I’m checking in with the manager for my mamá,” he says. “And I’m not on the most eligible list, yet. Although, I’m pretty sure Ambrose and Adriano are currently tied for third on the list.”

Antonio's family owns this Trescatelli's, as well as every other one on the continent. This is their flagship branch and has been since the day it opened, so it’s no surprise they keep close tabs on it at all times.

“I didn’t know you were back in Tevici,” he says, and I nod moving along with the line of people.

“My papá is having a few surgeries, so I'm back home to help out and make sure everything goes according to plan. How are your parents?” I ask.

Almost instantly the air shifts and tension swells. His hands disappear into his pockets and he shrugs, a sad look clouding his already soft features.

“Mamá is good, it’s my papá's funeral tomorrow. He passed away last week.”

My heart sinks, and I have to try and pry my foot from my mouth as I think of a response.

“I’m so sorry, Nino. I had no idea. How are you doing? More importantly, how is your mamá holding up?” I ask, and my hand instinctively holds onto his forearm.

I know Antonio was never incredibly close to his father, but losing a parent hurts regardless.

“We’re surviving. Gus has been taking it the hardest because he was there when Papá died,” he explains.

“Please send my condolences to you mamá. I’ll have to come over to see her sometime soon,” I say, making a mental reminder.

“Or you could come around tomorrow, to the funeral reception. You know the Vitale’s don't know how to have small gatherings, so it'll turn into a party before my papa's coffin is even fully covered in dirt. I’m sure mamá would love to see you as well,” he says, and without even thinking, I nod my head.

“Next,” the employee calls out, and I don't even realise that Antonio and I are the only two left in the store.

“Hi, can I get six cannolis please?” I smile at the young girl who can’t keep her eyes off Antonio, who is fully engrossed in his phone.

“Here you go,” she says, handing me the box.

“How much do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house,” Antonio says from beside me. I frown and stare up at him, but before I can even argue, the young girl is gone and the box is in my hands.

“C’mon, I'll give you a ride home so you don't have to take a taxi,” he says, holding the door open for me with an umbrella already outstretched. As we reach the car, he repeats the same action allowing me to enter first.

The inside of his black G-wagon screams “I’m a billionaire.”

The midnight blue nappa leather seats inscribed with A. Vitale is a clear, sign that this is not the same man I grew up with. He is more extravagant than before, more flashy and lives up to the image the media has painted of him and his brothers.

“Are you staying at your papá’s? Or at a hotel?” he asks, starting the car. It hums to life as if it were fresh out of the factory.

“At my papá’s,” I say, and he nods, turning onto the main road that leads straight to my house, still remembering the way after all these years.

“So how is Paris? Last I heard you were still studying art up there?” He confirms and I nod watching the trees pass by as we drive.

Studying for my degree only lasted a few years. I was supposed to return home to work for a local gallery as a curator while working on commissions on the side but, after marrying Mattheo, that dream fell to the wayside. Much like anything else I wanted to do that didn’t have Mattheo’s stamp of approval

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