LEVI'S POV
I was just about to walk toward Isabella, driven by some invisible force, when Franco leaned in to whisper something in her ear. He was dressed in his usual bad style—a navy suit that looked expensive but lacked any real taste. His tie was a garish yellow, clashing horribly with his outfit, a stark contrast to the effortless elegance of Isabella beside him. Her expression didn’t change; her disinterest was obvious, but Franco remained oblivious, still muttering in her ear as if he held her full attention.
I could already tell Isabella hated that he was there with her. I wondered why she had even agreed to be with him tonight.
Fuck! Maybe she doesn’t like me as much as I thought. Maybe…
Franco was leaning in closer, too close to her.
She’s mine. He needs to back away!
Rage simmered beneath my skin, my fists clenching at my sides. I wanted to wipe that smug grin off Franco's face, but I held back, forcing a deep breath into my lungs. I was still exhaling when my phone buzzed in my pocket—it was my father.
“I’m heading out,” I told Mark, my voice tight. I had to leave, not just because of my father’s call, but to get control of my emotions before I did something that would land me in the goddamn news. I didn’t want to ruin a good day by being impulsive.
“Already? The night’s young, boss,” Mark replied, but my eyes were on Isabella, who, as if on cue, shifted a bit away from Franco while clutching her bag.
“Enjoy it. Everything’s squared away for everyone. Let them have fun, but remember the media eyes are on them, so control the crowd as much as you can. I’m leaving you in charge,” I replied, glancing once again at Isabella. But this time, she was looking at Franco, who was staring at her lips.
The damn bastard.
What’s worse? Now Isabella was giggling. What’s so funny? Nothing is funny about that loser Franco.
Yeah, that’s my cue to leave, I thought, as I started to walk away.
I knew that once I left, my employees would feel more at ease, freed from the weight of my commanding presence. They deserved that freedom, just as much as they deserved to celebrate without their overbearing boss lurking in the background. They might like me a bit now, but I’m still as strict as ever, and I intend to maintain those boundaries.
The elevator doors slid shut behind me, sealing off the noise of the bar. I pressed the button for my floor, my thoughts already turning to the phone call I needed to make.
My father’s number still glowed on the screen, a name that carried more weight than I cared to admit. The metallic hum of the elevator filled the silence as I ascended to my hotel penthouse suite, where I could have this conversation without interruption or eavesdropping.
I knew why he was calling. The news of today’s race had spread like wildfire, my managerial decisions praised by those who had doubted me. My father, always the critic, would want to dissect every detail. He would want to know not just how I did it, but if I could maintain the good work.
We didn’t have much of a relationship beyond work; after my mother left, our conversations had become transactional, a series of exchanges centered on business. In a strange way, it made me want to excel even more, to give us something—anything—to talk about.
As soon as I stepped into my room, I called him back, anticipation mixed with a need for validation.
“Evening, Dad,” I began, a hint of pride slipping into my tone. “I know you’re calling about the race today—”
But before I could finish, my father’s voice cut through the line, sharp and irritable.
“Molly’s back in Italy. She’s married.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. My father’s voice, usually so controlled, was tinged with anger, irritation, and something that almost sounded like pain.
Molly—my mother. A name I hadn’t allowed myself to think of in years. She had left us, left Italy, and for a long time, she was more a ghost than a person. In our world, she simply didn’t exist unless one of us chose to remember her or find her. If we didn’t go searching for her, then there was nothing.
And yet, here he was, telling me she had returned. Had he been keeping tabs on her all this time? I had hired someone to do the same, more out of a need to know if she was alive than anything else. But I hadn’t heard from the investigator in months; it was like checking on a distant star, ensuring it was still there, even if I never intended to reach out. His call, the news—it wasn’t about the team, or the race, or anything to do with work. It was about her, about Molly. And it was clear he was rattled.
Yesterday, however, the investigator had called me to tell me about Molly’s presence in Italy. Maybe that had fueled my performance today, the subconscious desire to impress her, to show her what she had left behind. Though I tried not to think about her and had only replied with an “okay” to the investigator, I still knew she was there in my subconscious. She’s my mother, after all.
“I know,” I replied coldly, matching the chill in his tone. My father was the kind of man who showed kindness to everyone but his own family, the kind of man I had vowed never to become.
I wanted to steer the conversation back to the race, to the success we’d had today, to the future plans that could elevate the company even higher. But before I could, my father interrupted again, his voice a notch louder, more desperate. He sounded drunk.
“Don’t you understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand perfectly,” I shot back, my patience wearing thin. “Molly’s back, but she has nothing to do with us anymore.”
“How can you say that?” My father’s voice cracked, teetering on the edge of control. “She’s your mother! And you’re as cold-blooded and ruthless as she is!”
With that, the line went dead. He’d hung up on me, leaving me alone in the quiet of my hotel room, staring at the phone as if it might somehow offer answers. But all it left was an emptiness, a void where the warmth of victory had been just moments before.
Only one person can make me feel better now.