Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78015 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78015 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
2
Sofia
Four Years Later
I lifted my suitcase onto my old bed then opened the lid. Stacks of jeans, tops, and dresses were inside, all the things I wore while I was at university in Milan. For four years, I studied business and poetry. I learned everything I possibly could about running a business, operating a company that was ethical, that treated its employees with dignity, and how to keep a business open for decades.
My family owned a chain of hotels throughout Italy, ranging from the toe of the boot in the south all the way to the north close to Nice, France. As an only child, I was the heir to take over the family business.
I intended to make our hotels outlive our family by many generations. I was best acquainted with the hotel in Milan since I’d been studying there for the last four years, but the hotel in Florence was my favorite. I witnessed my father build it from the ground up, making his dream into a reality with such calm suavity. I never told him how proud I was of his work, and now that he was dead, I regretted it every single day of my life.
Now I was back in Florence, moving back in with my mother until I found my own footing. Living alone for the last few years had given me a taste of independence that I didn’t want to relinquish. I’d lived in a small apartment, but I’d had the freedom to eat cereal before bed, have men spend the night, and let my laundry pile up until it was a behemoth on the floor in the corner of my room. My booze and cigarettes could be enjoyed without a judgmental gaze.
My mother lived with my stepfather in the same mansion where I grew up, three stories right in the heart of the city. It wasn’t like we wouldn’t have the privacy we needed from one another.
But still, a grown woman shouldn’t be living with her mother.
I finished unpacking then went out onto the terrace on the second floor, where we had breakfast every morning in the summer before it got too hot. It was almost fall, so the temperature was somewhat diminishing. The humidity was taking a little longer.
Mother sat there, her legs crossed, a cigarette resting between her soft fingertips. She had dark brown hair just like mine, perfectly styled to maintain her beauty. She still had beautiful skin, her wrinkles hidden under all the products she used to fight the detrimental effects of aging.
With my eyebrow raised, I approached her from behind and snatched the cigarette from her poised hand. “Things have changed around here.”
She maintained her calm posture, her eyes following my movements as I took the seat beside her. A cup of coffee was on the table next to her hand, just black even though she preferred cream and sugar. “Not really. I just don’t bother to hide it anymore.”
“Smoking takes years off your life.” Anytime I felt a cigarette between my fingertips, I thought of the erotic night I’d had on a balcony four years ago. A man took it right out of my hand and tossed it away.
“I don’t care.” She opened the pack and pulled out another.
“It causes wrinkles…”
She had the cigarette in her mouth with the lighter held close to the tip. Instead of striking it with her thumb and making it burst into flame, she sighed and put everything down.
“That’s what I thought.” That was the kind of woman my mother was. She cared more about her appearance than living a long, healthy life.
“Don’t be so prissy. I’ve found your stash around the house.”
I didn’t deny it. They said mothers knew everything. They were right.
A servant brought me a cup of coffee, but I didn’t hesitate before I added cream and sugar. I liked it fattening, packed with sweetness and calories, and I didn’t give a damn about the destruction to my waistline. “I quit a few years ago.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to live past forty.”
“Now that’s an exaggeration.” Instead of reaching for her cigarettes, she grabbed her coffee and took a sip. She examined the view before us, the sun rising over the beautiful city, highlighting the green hillsides in the background. Even from miles away, the scent of grapes was always in the air. “How does it feel to be home?”
“It’s nice…”
She chuckled. “You hate it, don’t you?”
“I’m just not thrilled to be moving back in with my mother.”
“I lived with my parents until I got married.”
“But you got married when you were nineteen.”
She shrugged. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Soon enough, the same will happen to you.”
I didn’t have any interest in getting married. I loved my parents, but their marriage was depressing. My mother’s second marriage to my stepfather was even worse. My mother only gave herself to a man for one reason—to be taken care of. She wanted a man to handle the business, the finances, and be the alpha in the relationship.