Dramatic, Mushy, Complicated Love by Leah Sharelle (fantasy novels to read .txt) 📕

10 years later

There was a burn in my shoulders that just wouldn’t quit. Of course, it didn’t help that for the last seven hours, all I had done was sit at my desk to go over contracts, participate in zoom meetings, and calculate quotes for the five jobs the company was bidding for this month.

This was my least favourite part of being the head of the family business. Wearing a suit and tie and sitting in front of a computer sucked arse, being out on-site was where my skill set laid. Unfortunately, my business partner and best mate, Ace, won the toss of the coin and hightailed it out of the office early this morning, leaving me to sweat it out here instead of outside in the sun and fresh air. Tearing shit down was Ace’s speciality, where mine was more in the building and technical side, but I did enjoy getting my hands dirty with the explosives when time allowed. We both, however, hate office work and schmoozing with clients, and neither of us has much tolerance for idiots.

“Next time I’ll toss the coin, this is the third time in a row that prick has won,” I grumbled to no one but myself, “and use my own coin.” It wouldn’t surprise me if Ace used a prank coin to get out of the bookwork. The bloke had a tendency to make sure his life was made easy and got nothing but joy out of seeing me miserable. Slowly rolling my shoulders to work out the kinks, I pushed back in my chair, dropping my head over the back.

“Kayla! No more calls, okay?” I shouted out gruffly towards the outer office where my sister worked as my assistant. At twenty-six, and the second oldest behind me by three years, Kayla was the of Donatella Engineering and Demolition office manager. She ran the office with an iron fist—as well as me. She lived by agendas, lists and schedules, if it didn’t go through her first, then it didn’t come to me. There was no one more organised than the oldest Donatella sister, no one.

Hearing the clicking of her heels on the hardwood floor, I braced for the inevitable lecture and rundown of what the workload was going to be for the following day. Kayla was nothing if not predictable.

“Luca, must you shout? We have an intercom system for a reason, shouting is so uncouth, and that is not the impression we want to project to our clients.” My sister’s predicted response came just as I knew it would.

“Kayla, there are no fucking clients out there, just you.” My crass reply getting the desired effect from my prim and proper sister. My entire family lived by the philosophy the outward appearance was more important than who you really were. The first impression had to be perfect, whether it be a potential client, a neighbour or a member of the church. A Donatella should always ooze class and sophistication my French-born mother and Italian father had said on a daily basis.

And for the last ten years, I have lived by that rule as best as I could.

But there were times when I craved to revert back to that nineteen year old that got a taste of freedom for six precious months—getting pissed every second night, hanging with Ace and the other guys in the five-bedroom house we shared. Laundry day was once a week, the fridge always full of Vic Bitter and the freezer packed with frozen pizza and chocolate mint chip ice-cream. The staples of teens on the cusp of manhood.

My father’s death ended that rite of passage, sending me back to attend university closer to my family instead of with my mates. Ace transferred back with me, and together we forged out a plan. Both of us getting degrees in engineering and explosives, working hard to finish school early so I could take control of my dad’s widely successful business and continue his legacy. For my mother, there was nothing more important than having her son take the place of her lost husband, and I took that seriously. However, there were times when I wished for the heavy responsibility that had been thrust on me at such a young age to be replaced with a weekend of booze and partying.

Just a small reprieve.

Glancing at the small desk clock, I decided to say fuck it and wave adios to the computer and bookwork. There was nothing important that couldn’t wait for the morning, but a cold beer at the pub with Ace and the boys couldn’t.

***

“Luca, I don’t know why you insist on living at that house when there is so much room in your family home,” my mother complained as I rummaged through the fridge for something quick to eat. My mind was only half focused on the stock standard complaint, instead opting to think about the night ahead. Calling Ace from the car when I left the office, I informed him of the plan to meet up at the usual watering hole for a game or three of pool and copious amounts of cold frothy nectar of the gods—telling Ace to get the crew organised and to meet me at The Western at six.

“Mum, I don’t want to go over the same topic again tonight. We do it every damn day I come over, and the answer is always the same.” Grabbing a plate with a thick slice of leftover lasagne, I headed over, pulled a fork out of the draining rack, and started shovelling my favourite thing to eat into my mouth, the whole time looking at my mother.

Her French heritage showed in her fine classical features, well-kept and styled hair and impeccable dress sense. Even for a day pottering around the house, she wore heels, a dress or skirt and blouse, jewellery and a full face of make-up. Irena Donatella was the epitome of the 1950s housewife