I am convinced that a wicked man invented phones as a means of torture for all the unfortunate people who consider communicating with the outer world a pretty disturbing activity and have no conversational skills on top of that. They are especially hazardous for those of us who do not get enough sleep on a regular basis. This is the ultimate punishment for staying up late. Why else on earth would the horrible thing be ringing from early morning?

  Who is so eager to talk to me? I spoke with my mother for nearly forty minutes last evening and saw my father at work. It is true that it was a brief encounter, but he would not want to deal with me longer than that anyway. Luca already called yesterday... Shit! Luca! I promised to call him back and totally forgot about it. Ugh, my stubborn stepbrother can never leave me alone. Why does he always have to focus so adamantly on my well-being? It is nice of him, but also annoying as hell. I do not need a nanny. His fratellino (little brother) is all grown up. It is not his responsibility to make up for our father's complete lack of understanding.

   The irritating beep seems to be coming from somewhere under my head. I start digging around the pillow in hopes of finding the wretched device without having to open my eyes. I achieve no success with the phone but manage to dip my fingers into a spoonful of melted ice cream, most of which is smeared all over my face. The spoon itself is stuck to the middle of my forehead. A good portion of the gooey mess is in my hair, of course. Any lover of alternative looks would surely be damn jealous of the punk dreads I am sporting.

   My next startling discovery is a perfectly sharpened pencil within the dangerous proximity of my right eye. I should be really grateful for deciding to roll onto my left side first. When it becomes clear that there is a neat pile of spring rolls on my crotch, I finally realize the pitiful state I am in. Apparently, I have fallen asleep on the sofa, fully clothed and with a tray of food on my lap. It is not my first time. It is unlikely to be the last one either.

   "Why?" I sourly groan after managing to sit up, spot the phone under the table and answer it. "I could sleep for another hour before having to face the harsh reality. What's wrong with you? It's seven a. m. Who the hell likes to chat at seven? Certainly not Luca De Angelis. Did something happen? Are you all right?"

   "Wow! You're quite talkative for someone who just woke up." He cackles. I see nothing funny. "Buongiorno, fratellino (Good morning, little brother)! Are you alone? I mean, you are not hiding some hot guy under the sheets, are you?"

   "What?" I furrow my brows in confusion. Why would he ask me such a question? Not that there is even the slightest possibility of his crazy assumption proving true. He is up to something, and I bet my bottom dollar that I am not going to like it. My suspicions grow even stronger at hearing a distinct ding on the other side of the line. I cautiously ask, trying to sound casual, "Luca, where are you?"

   "In an elevator," he apologetically answers. "Cough! Umm...with dad."

   "Fuck!" I rub my aching forehead. This is not good. I smelled trouble the moment he started coughing. "Which elevator?"

   "Yours," he remorsefully mumbles.

   "Did you really drive for six hours from Genova to Rome just because it slipped my mind to brief you on my first day at work? This is insane. And why is dad... Ohh, never mind..." I honestly feel like crying. How they got together only to ruin my whole day from early morning is beyond me. I look around and shriek in horror, "What floor?"

   "Just passed eighteen," my brother cheerfully informs me. "I don't drive, silly. I have a chauffeur. I also have a pilot, so I actually landed last night after quite an enjoyable one hour flight. Couldn't even finish a bottle of Prosecco. Dad urgently wanted to discuss a business deal. However, it got too late for visits. We thought it would be a nice surprise to come by and have breakfast together instead."

   "Well, it is not," I hiss. "Next time, hit me with a rock. The surprise will be nicer."

   What shall I do? There is no way I am going to clean up this mess before they pop right in the middle of my living room, much less shower and change. Why didn't I change the elevator password when I first moved in? The sketchbook! I can somehow survive Count de Angelis' disapproving glare at the sight of all the food on the floor and the ice cream stains on my face, but I will die on the spot if he even glimpses Jason's portraits, which are still scattered across the table. The thought finally makes me move. I rush to collect the drawings and manage to shove them into a drawer a second before the familiar ding announces my guests' arrival.

   "Mamma mia! Madonna Santa!" Father's eyes go wide upon stepping into the room.

   Count Massimiliano de Angelis is no doubt shocked to the core. To speak frankly, so am I. For some reason, his eyes are pinned to the huge grease splotch on the front of my pants. I can't blame him. If I were in his place, I would be gazing at precisely the same spot and jumping to exactly the same conclusions. However, I do not have the strength and determination to explain that it is not what he thinks.

   My brother's classy cream suit and father's snow-white shirt clearly do not suggest any affectionate family hugs in my current state. We all stare at each other in silence. I feel like a smelly stray cat that some wealthy gentleman has just pulled out of the ditch in a fit of unexpected kindness and is now wondering exactly where to put it so it does not stain his expensive branded carpet. Luca is smirking. He is completely devoid of the ability to experience second hand embarrassment. My brother is enjoying this. 

   "If I did not know you well, I would say that there was a wild party here last night, followed by food fight and kinky sex," he smugly says. "Unfortunately, you most likely fell asleep while drawing, with Chinese takeout on your lap. Too bad those tailored trousers are ruined in vain."

   "Luca!" Dad sternly interrupts him. "Smettila (Cut it out)! Skylar, off to the bathroom."

   My brother rolls his eyes behind his back and perches on a tall bar stool. Father carefully takes off his jacket, puts it on the coat hanger and slowly removes the diamond cufflinks from his silk shirt's sleeves. I am still frozen.

   He cocks an eyebrow. "Svegliati! Che aspetti? Su! (Hurry up! What are you waiting for? Move!) You boys are going to give me a heart attack one of these days. Sky, look at your hair! I don't even want to know what is smeared on your face. Santo Cielo (For heaven's sake)! Your pencils are mixed with noodles. Your shirt... Have you ever seen me in dirty clothes? When are you two doing to grow up?"

   Luca snorts, apparently trying not to laugh out. I am ashamed. My dad can make anyone feel guilty. A tiny part of me still rebels. It whispers in my ear that I am in my own home. This is the place where I can do whatever I like, including not open the door to unexpected visitors. But it is soon silenced. 

   "I'll make breakfast," father goes on. "I want you both at the table in thirty minutes, clean, fresh, and well mannered. Don't make me repeat."

   "Figo (Cool)!" Luca grins. "I want scrambled eggs with crispy Prosciutto di Parma, ricotta pancakes and espresso."

   "Don't hurry to cheer," dad grumbles. "You better start tidying up. This room needs to be polished before Sky is back. It won't hurt to help your brother."

   I sneer at Luca's reluctant expression, but one look from the head of house De Angelis sends me running to the bathroom.

***

A/N

Hello, at the end of Chapter 8.

Thank you for reading and supporting ❤️❤️❤️

Have you had a similar experience when someone paid a visit at the most inappropriate time?

Are you annoyed when people come uninvited?

Do you think Sky is right to be frustrated with his father's behavior?

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Love: Anny 

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