Page 1 of Did My Heart Love Till Now?

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“Gavino! Get down here!”

Those were the words I woke up to over the home intercom. God forbid my father walk all the way up to my room to speak with me like a normal parent. That would have been too much to ask. He was both too busy and distracted by his own power.

I was twenty-three and still lived at home. I was not dumb in the least. In reality, I was rather smart, a genius according to the numerous test results. High school? I graduated with honors. College? I thought about it, but nothing seemed interesting enough.

I was an artist and musician. The arts were my passion and all I cared about. According to my father, music was for drug addicts and whores. Art was for homeless people and low-ranking street gang members. I felt like a waste of space in my own home and knew it was only a matter of time before I moved out. One of my siblings, my twenty-one-year-old sister, Chiara, was a great support system for me, but she was only home occasionally.

Last night, I had been out partying like every other night of my life. At some point in the early hours of the morning, I got home. I remembered nothing after that. All I wanted to do was sleep the day away.

Rolling over, I wiped my eyes, noticing the weight of someone next to me. Eventually, I focused. I did not recognize her, nor remember her name. Her long, messy blonde hair fell over the pillow. Large, fake breasts jiggled just out the blankets as she shifted. Her neck decorated with sprinkles of hours-old hickeys. Grinning at my work of art, I narrowed my gaze, trying to recall the previous evening. Still, I did not know who she was, or how she ended up in my bed.

She stirred, opening her eyes as if she could feel my gaze piercing her. Smiling, she inched closer. “Damn what an amazing night, baby." She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, draping her leg around my waist. "You were so good.”

Flickering my gaze, I turned away from her, perching on the edge of the bed. At least one of us remembered the previous night. Attempting to focus on the pattern of the black and white, stripe art deco rug, I was soon met with a sharp ache, probing my head. With my elbows buried into my knees, I rested my face in my palms, massaging away as much of the discomfort as I could.

The mysterious girl crawled over, wrapping an arm around my waist from the back. With her fingernail, she traced the tattoo in between my shoulder blades; a cross with angel wings. Her lips grazed my back, dusting my skin with kisses.

Suddenly, my door swung open. Maria marched in, swinging her arms in the air, mumbling Italian to herself angrily. Maria was a much older woman, her hair salt and pepper, always pulled tightly into a bun, resting on top of her head. She was my personal attendant from Sicily who barely spoke English. My family hired her when my siblings and I were little. She had been our nanny, but stayed as we grew up, working for our family where needed. Though none of us needed a nanny any longer, she treated us the same.

Coming to a stop in front of the bed, she rested her hands on her hips, irritably. “Get up, Gavino!”

I grumbled into my hands as my guest pressed her naked breasts into my back, trying to conceal herself from Maria.

“Little girl, you leave!” Ripping the blanket and sheet off the bed, she balled them up, letting them tumble to the antique chestnut floor. Stomping around, she gathered the girl's clothes off the rug before tossing them in her direction. “Dress now!”

After she was content, she had made herself clear, she dashed to my closet for several minutes before returning with a somewhat formal outfit; a pair of black dress slacks, a white button up shirt, and boxer briefs. She then laid a pair of black, formal shoes on the floor next to my feet.

“You Papà want you downstairs.” She held up two fingers in my face. “Due minuti, Gavino, due minuti!”

Jerking my head back, I glared at her. She was a good person, but I did not like taking orders from anyone. She slammed the bedroom door on the way out, displaying her annoyance and disapproval.

My guest was already dressed. She sashayed over seductively, planting herself in between my legs. Resting her arms on my shoulders, she gazed down with lust in her bloodshot eyes. “When can I see you again?” As she attempted to straddle me, I stood causing her to fall back on the floor, landing on her bottom.

“I don't even know your name.” I staggered toward the closet in defiance of Maria's clothing choice.

She helped herself up, crossing her arms, “You never asked.”

Pausing, I pivoted to her briefly, tossing my hands out to the side. “And yet you fucked me anyway.” Shaking off her comment, I marched away. “Get the fuck out.”

“Prick!” She scoffed.

Stopping in my tracks, I spun on my heels, flashing a malevolent grin, hoping she would further challenge me.

Inhaling a sharp breath, she recoiled slightly. “I’m so sorry, I'll go.”

Gnawing the inside of my cheek, I narrowed my gaze before disappearing into my closet. As I dressed, I heard my bedroom door close, so I assumed she would show herself out. Normally when girls left, I checked my room to make sure they did not steal anything from me, but I had a feeling she did not dare. That would have been a stupid thing to do.

Twenty-Seven minutes later, I meandered downstairs toward my father's office. Most people described the room as intimidating, knowing it was where he conducted all his business, at least the meetings. Decorated in dark, stained woods with a large, brown stone fireplace, an enormous portrait of my family hung above the exceptionally large mantle. Awkwardly, it greeted anyone who followed the faint scent of extinguished papers and wood.

His office was his cave and refuge. He was rarely found anywhere else in the house other than the library, the table when he ate, or in his bedroom when he finally slept. For him, watching television was a joke. I do not recall ever seeing my father watch a show or movie, other than the news. He did listen to music, but it was only ever in Italian on a record player. He was very old school and traditional when it came to life, any part of life.

I entered the room, wearing only black, ripped jeans that hung off my hips, exposing the elastic of my grey boxer briefs. My rosary swayed from my neck in sync with each step I took. My father's underboss and consigliere stood close to him analyzing me as I came to a stop in front of the executive desk.

“What happened to two minutes?” Standing, my father folded his arms disapprovingly.

Unbothered, I smirked. “I don't keep track of time.”

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