The Mafia Heirs and The Heiress

2 years earlier

Milan, Italy 

◇ KEL ◇

It was his dark, wavy hair. Or was it the devil-may-care air about him? His height was also a plus. He was of lean build, considering he was several inches taller than me, but he looked quite muscular, too.

His attractive features held my attention. I thought he was a full-blooded Italian. Apparently, he was of American descent as well. His mom was half-American, and he'd mentioned that they lived in the States when he was a teen. Quite an interesting family background.

Actually, I found everything about him rather interesting. Subtly mysterious. Probably had a bad boy streak, too. But I didn't mind.

Miles gulped some more of his beer as the loud party music drowned out the conversations simultaneously happening around us. I reclined on the sofa with my legs crossed, watching him chitchatting with his friends while the lights made his shoulder-length hair look shiny and soft to the touch.

It was only the second time I saw him here in Italy, but I already felt drawn to him for some reason. Or it could be because we just did a freakin' blood pact in front of his friends barely half an hour ago. He even drank some of my blood.

Partly regretful and embarrassed, I smothered a laugh at the thought. I stared at the antiseptic-laden bandages on the small cut I made on my left ring finger. It still stung.

He said his hammered friends blackmailed him, so he "just had to do the dare" with me to avoid crossing paths with his ex-boyfriend again. Allergic much?

As a former medical professional trained in laboratory infection control, I shouldn't have encouraged it and should've just said no to the stupid dare. But they were all drunkenly and brazenly cheering us on, and most of my common sense had already been suppressed by the alcohol in my system.

It was really stupid. What we did was outrageously biohazardous. Oddly, he didn't flinch much when he tasted my blood. He must have been that intoxicated already. Why were his friends letting him drink more beer?

His best friend said his real name was "Maximiliano," and that his parents were from Umbria. But Paul didn't mention a lot about Miles' background, leaving much to my imagination. I supposed Miles didn't like that his first name was a mouthful—hence, him choosing the nickname "Miles".

Despite my opinion of him being an introvert, I could also tell he liked partying with his friends and some recreational activities... besides smoking cigarettes and the usual party booze. Bad boy cliché personified.

He wasn't a total wild child, as far as I could tell. But he's definitely the type of guy my strict parents had warned me to stay away from when they transferred me out of the all-girls Catholic school I grew up in with my sister. My gut told me he was inherently a nice guy, though.

Our first lengthy conversation an hour ago also assured me of my overall impression of him. As soft rock music soothed my fairly inebriated senses, I shut my eyes and rested my nape on the sofa's headrest.

The liquor had depleted my energy, judging from my lightheadedness and the unpleasant sensation in between my thighs. Almost like I was on my period. To be honest, alcohol and I were never friends... mainly because I stayed away from it and other indulgent habits.

Granted, I shouldn't be staying up this late drinking with strangers and doing nothing, but the past few days felt as if my brain was just completely worn out from all the studying and adulting.

Right now, both my mind and body just felt drained and useless, overworked, full of pent-up anxiety, and unable to keep up with adulthood's demands. But at least my mom wasn't around to chastise me eight ways to Sunday. I kind of missed her, though, and my sister.

"Sorry, the party's boring you to death," someone mumbled in my face a few minutes later.

It was Miles. I could tell by his American accent. His joke sounded like he was rather serious, though. I opened my eyes to regard him.

He sat beside me, no longer clutching a beer bottle. His breath was warm and smelled of alcohol, and his eyelids looked quite droopy now.

"It's a nice party," I commented while staring into his attentive hazel eyes. "I was just zoning out for a bit."

"You look ready to bolt. Not blaming you, though." Miles clicked his tongue and reclined next to me. He was chewing gum while his lazy gaze roamed around the small groups of people drinking and chatting around us.

"Nah. Just tired. Sleepy," I muttered in reply.

My phone clock said I should leave the party and call it a night. But I liked the feeling of being around strangers who knew nothing about me. Being invisible gave me a sense of comfort most of the time.

Most of them didn't even know my first name but I was fine with that. It was Paul's birthday, and he invited me to join the celebration. Because he let me crash on his couch for about two weeks now with his girlfriend's full approval, I shouldn't be rude and should just try to enjoy the party.

"Just to be clear, though." Miles cleared his throat and chuckled afterward as if amused by something that crossed his mind. "I'm clean. Far as I know. I mean... I always use condoms and don't do oral. And I don't shoot up, so no needles."

At his barefaced admission, I couldn't hold back my surprised laugh as I watched him itch the bandages I had placed on his palm to cover up his cut.

Earlier during the game, Miles actually cut himself using Paul's Swiss knife just for that stupid dare. And now he was casually sharing private matters about his sex life.

It was pretty funny. "I don't doubt it," I replied after I chuckled at his candor. "I'm clean, too. I don't sleep around, and I don't do drugs. Just FYI." Except for some anti-depression meds, I should say. But I doubted he would find that a relaxing conversation segue, so I opted not to elaborate. I just wanted to reassure him that I didn't have any bloodborne pathogens that could cause serious harm to his health because he ingested some of my blood.

"Yeah. I don't think you're into Italian guys," Miles mumbled with a slanted grin that partly showed his nice teeth. "They're pretty filthy. I mean, most of them."

I laughed at his comment again. "Does that... include your ex?" The one he'd been hiding from all night? He didn't say much earlier when I asked about the guy. I just heard the guy's name was Niccolo.

"Probably. I don't really give a shit if he sleeps around," Miles said with a mild frown. "Wasn't anything serious."

"Oh." I glanced around us and noticed that the other guests had returned to the party downstairs.

"And you?"

"Huh?" I looked at Miles and realized he had been staring at my face.

"You dating someone?"

"No."

"Why not?" he asked casually.

"I dunno..." I shrugged. "I just don't date," I admitted, faintly giggling at his apparent curiosity.

"Huh. Okay. Are you... asexual?"

"Yeah." I nodded almost too enthusiastically. It somewhat surprised me that he could tell so easily.

"Cool. First one I've met so far." He coughed away from my face before he stared at the pitch-black sky above us. "How old are you again?"

"24. You?"

"26 soon." Miles smiled for a moment and fixed his hair into a ponytail. "I like your hair." He scooped a chunk of my long hair and lightly combed his fingers through it. "Naturally straight and soft. Virgin hair."

"It's boring. I like yours better." I smiled back at him. Actually, I was crushing on his long and wavy hair that almost looked black. It completed his vaguely mysterious look. "It's got character."

"It's my mom's hair," Miles muttered before glancing away. He reclined again and put his arms on the headrest. "Why Italy?" he then asked after a few seconds of silence.

"I dunno. Just... impulse. I've always wanted to visit Europe."

"Paul told me you're looking for modeling jobs."

"Yeah. Wanna try doing it full-time here." I sighed to myself, knowing the transition wasn't going to be that easy. "I mean, I badly need the cash, too."

"Why?" Miles glanced at me and frowned slightly.

"I was modeling part-time to help pay for my tuition and student loans... all that."

"In New York?"

"Yeah. But I had to drop out. So now, I'm trying to work here full-time."

"Why’d you drop out?" Miles furrowed his brows at me.

"Just, y'know, the money, and some family issues," I replied without bothering to elaborate. He didn't need to know I was having a hard time looking for modeling jobs here in Milan.

Since I just moved here weeks ago, I couldn't get odd jobs because I didn't speak the language at all. I'd been crashing at Paul and India's apartment for the past two weeks now. Luckily for me, they didn't seem to mind—for now.

"Paul said you been lookin' for a place to stay?" Miles asked after yawning.

"Yeah. Told him and India I'll move out once I get enough cash. I'm looking to book more runway gigs."

"You can crash at mine. But it's almost two hours away."

I stared at him. Was he being serious? "Where do you live, by the way?"

"Brescia. Around Brichese."

"Ah..." I nodded. "Alone?"

"Yeah." Miles glanced at me again and gave me a lopsided smile. "I need a new muse for my next collection."

"I'm sorry. What?"

"I'm starting a couple of paintings. Gonna sell the pieces next year. If I finish all of 'em on schedule."

"And you want me to...pose for your paintings?" Me? His new muse?

"Yeah. You said you need a modeling gig." Miles snickered. "No full-on nudity if you're uncomfortable with that."

"Cool," I said, unable to think of anything else to say. So, he thought I was good enough to be his muse?

"You can move in as soon as tomorrow. I got two spare rooms in my house."

Wow. His house? He already owned a house? At 25? Whoa! How rich was he?

"Sound good?"

"Uh... yeah." I blinked at his steady gaze. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah," he replied after getting rid of his lopsided grin. His tone sounded certain and not joking at all. "You'll be my temp muse. You won't have to worry about rent. Then you can go to castings and work full-time on Fashion Week. That's if... you wanna live in Brescia."

"No, I... I'd love to." I couldn't hold back a smile while he stared at me, waiting for my answer.

"Really?" he murmured with a somewhat doubtful look. He was also frowning a bit. 

"Yeah." I sat still when he leaned in to regard me with his watchful long-lashed eyes. They looked even more beautiful up-close.

"Cool. We're roomies now." Miles gave me a half-grin before he took out a wrinkled cigarette stick. "You smoke?"

"No. Just socially."

"Good. Don't smoke." Miles lit the cigarette and took a long drag while his head was turned away from me.

I almost smiled. He was full of contradictions, but I was starting to like that about him.

Why was he hanging out with me? Did he find me remotely interesting to talk to, or he just thought I needed company because I looked like such a loner?

"Any questions?" I muttered after he put out his cigarette with his leather boots. "What if I'm a serial killer or something?"

"Nah." Miles cleared his throat after staring at me with slightly creased brows. "You don't have that aura."

"How d'you mean?"

"I know a grade-A bullshitter when I meet one." 

I giggled when Miles snickered at his own words.

"You ever posed nude?" He squinted at me. "Some photographers, stylists, and agents can be total pervs."

"Yeah. Some definitely are," I muttered. "Just semi-nude. No nips."

"Hey. No judgment here."

I chuckled. "Thanks for hearting my photos, by the way."

Miles glanced away and grinned timidly. "I wasn't stalking you online or anything," he mumbled with a throaty chuckle that made me smile. "Okay. Maybe just a little."

"No judgment here, either." I raised my palms and snickered at his smirk. "I tried modeling 'cause I just felt like I needed a break, y'know? From med school, the pressure, anxiety... and the loans were piling up, and Dad's getting sicker." I shrugged.

"Sicker? Is he doin' okay now?"

"A little better. But not for long, I imagine." I sighed at the saddening thought. When the stress and anxiety reached their peak some weeks ago, I just packed up and left America before my parents could even talk me out of it.

"Sorry about your dad." Miles pouted for a moment. 

"After months of stress and anxiety, I just decided to leave New York. Get a breather for a bit."

"And you thought you could try working here to save up and enjoy the anonymity," Miles replied.

"Exactly." I chuckled.

"Your parents know you're here in Milan, though. Right?"

"Yeah. Definitely. Mom's a worrier, to be honest."

"Ah." Miles looked away and glanced up at the starless sky again. "Wanna try living in the countryside? Lots of privacy there." He yawned. "Just sayin'..."

"At your place?"

"Yeah." He grinned slightly after glancing at my fairly skeptical reaction.

"But... how am I gonna pay rent?" I squinted at his handsome profile, gauging his seriousness. I knew he was rather inebriated, but the certainty in his tone told me he wasn't merely joking about the whole thing. "I don't have a steady job yet."

"Did I say you gotta pay rent? I told you I need a muse." He stared and snickered at me. "Yes or no?"

◇

◇ KEL ◇

Milan, Italy Today wouldn't be any different.

This wouldn't be another one of those days. I had prepared for this, prepared my brain for instances like this.

My breaths had already turned shallow and quick. But I was in control; everything would be okay. I'd make it out of here easily—like everybody else—in a calm and orderly fashion.

I repeated the hopeful words in my head while my eyes focused on the wide mirror in front of me. "You're fine. Keep it together. You're in public. You've done your job... had a good run. Time to go home." I pushed stubborn strands of hair away from my cheeks, ignoring the anxiety welling up in my eyes.

My hand clasped the edge of the cold sink as I tried to stop the voices. They weren't exactly voices, though... more like, unwanted thoughts that threaten my sanity. My lips wrinkled into a frustrated frown as my paper-white reflection stared back at me.

The wipes my fingers crumpled dampened my skin with a coolness my dazed senses could barely register. I rubbed the foundation off my face, and the swift, repetitive strokes started to chafe some color on my cheeks.

Two opening shows yesterday, one closing for this afternoon, and all went well. Typical workday—round-the-clock schedule, consecutive shows, nonstop changing, and dressing up. My feet and back were killing me, but at least I didn't trip or fall off the catwalk.

It had been my routine for three straight weeks now, including the workdays. I had to get up at 5 AM to travel to the city for castings and fittings. I sighed. If I had other options, I'd quit in a heartbeat and find an easier job. But that wouldn't pay off my family's bank loans and credit card bills, would it?

As I leaned against the cold sink, a massive headache weakening my muscles started to bleed my patience dry. If this wasn't an escalating anxiety attack, then why did I feel like passing out on the floor right now?

... Because you're weak...

Always been, always will be...

You're nothing but a stupid, gullible, pathetic wannabe...

◇

"Greetings, Ms. Nielsen.

We have received your application letter and regret to inform you that your application has been disqualified due to inconsistencies we have observed on your personal information sheet. We also failed to verify the birth records you have attached to your application files.

UCMLE's scholarship committee reserves the right to reject an application if false information has been provided. Scholarship grants awarded by UCMLE's committee are limited and are on a first-come, first-serve basis. Providing false or incomplete information on the application forms will immediately result in the applicant's disqualification. Charges of larceny and forgery may also be filed against applicants who knowingly provided false details in the scholarship application forms.

Should you have any concerns regarding this matter, our administrative department will be available Monday to Friday during office hours to provide any assistance, but we cannot guarantee that every request will be honored.

We wish you good luck on your future endeavors.

UCMLE SC Head Office"

It might have taken three re-reads and half an hour before my shock lessened to a manageable degree, only to let the disappointment and reality sink in.

Dropping the impeccably folded paper on my lap, I hunched over on the toilet seat cover, put off by this disappointing act of rejection. I didn't open the letter until I was sure I would no longer have to face any of my employers or agents today. The letter had to wait. I put it off all night and all morning. I focused first on the jobs I had to do today. 

All I had hoped for since those weeks of prepping the vexing amount of scholarship requirements, until today, was to be given a chance—a chance to join the list of scholarship awardees, and a chance to make my academic goals a reality this year.

UCMLE, a prestigious international school known to support local and foreign undergrads, provided the much-coveted medical scholarship programs to those who qualified and met their criteria. I had been waiting patiently for months. Long, tiring, anxious months.

A positive response was what I expected, of course. However, fate seemed to have a different plan for me and my future.

Modeling was a temporary thing, just a means to support myself financially for the time being, really. Not getting any younger and a lifelong career in the modeling industry? Moving to the North Pole would be less impossible.

A bachelor's degree in the field of study I'd chosen remained my ultimate goal. But it seemed the odds weren't in my favor.

Not yet, perhaps. I would try again, but that would mean I was out-and-out desperate. Maybe I should just go home and try my luck with other colleges?

That would mean I had to take weeks off work, though. It would cost me more time and money. Although my mom and dad would be glad to help out, I wouldn't dare ask them for help. They had enough bills to worry about.

Money was becoming an issue these days, seeing as my dad was in and out of the hospital, battling respiratory complications his illness had once again triggered. I sighed and composed a short prayer in my head.

God willing, my dad's current condition would improve in the coming months. Rather unlikely, but we still prayed for his health to improve after this fourth hospitalization. The constant prayers might just work.

My eyes shut tight while my palms covered my face, and before I could finish the prayers in my head, my phone's notifications broke my thoughts.

New message From: Jill "You busy?"

Today 3:19 PM

◇

"Mykaela? You there? Kel?"

The familiar female voice made me relax my fist and momentarily forget about my unsettling thoughts. The oddly painful sensation in my gut told me it wasn't going away anytime soon. I should be used to this type of rejection by now, given the nature of my current job, but the constricting feeling in my chest just wouldn't go away.

"Yeah," I muttered after putting my phone on speaker. It was my sister, Jill, calling to check up on me all of a sudden. I didn't want any more family drama, so I took the call when I saw my older sister's photo and name on the screen.

"Are you still at the show? Sorry. Really wanted to be there, but the hubs had to fly out."

"It's fine." I zipped up my coat until it totally covered my shirt.

"You sound weird. Eat breakfast and lunch yet?" Jill asked over the line, probably worrying about my skinny figure.

"Yeah. I'm fine." I used a more pleasant tone to cover up my lie. My voice didn't falter, thankfully. I put the call in the background to check if I had unread messages. Wait—

It was way past lunch. Miles could be around the area. I should text him now.

"Sure?" my sister asked. "What'd you eat? Don't say eggs again."

"Yeah. Precisely." I took a deep breath, pretending my rapid heartbeat didn't bother me. "How's baby Meesha?"

"Always sleeping when not hungry. Mom keeps saying you're still too skinny." Just like that, Jill moved on to more pressing family issues. "She keeps Googling recent photos of you and Miles; it's hilarious."

"Ugh. Please don't tell me she found posts of his self-portraits," I droned on. I'd been praying my puritanical parents hadn't stumbled upon my roomie's latest paintings yet.

"Too late." Jill laughed a little. "Her mouth just hung open for an entire minute. Can't blame her, though. Your boyfriend's got mad painting skills. I mean, whoa..." Jill paused to giggle again. "Those paintings looked so...anatomically correct."

I sighed. She was referring to the nude paintings Miles just finished. "For the hundredth time, not my boyfriend." I paused to think. "He likes guys. Jeez... this is gettin' exhausting." Not my problem our parents didn't believe my roommate only let me live with him because I liked to clean and cook.

"Maybe he's bi. Did you even ask?" Jill teased. "Anyway, no after-parties tonight?"

"Not interested." I abstractedly stared at my recently retouched and free manicure. Perks of being a full-time model. Lately, I just didn't have the time to pamper myself or deal with the usual anxiety disorders we working models had to hide on a regular basis. I'd easily choose to lounge in bed reading my new cardiology and pathology eBooks rather than spend all night partying with younger models whose last names I didn't even know.

"Why? You're goin' out with Miles?"

"Got somethin' else planned," I mumbled the white lie while checking my message inbox.

Why hadn't Miles replied? Was he busy hanging out with friends?

Impatience started intensifying my headache, so I decided to text him again. "Driving to the venue now? Pls wait in the parking lot," I sent twice.

He wasn't supposed to pick me up this early, but I just needed a friend right now. A comforting hug would be real nice, too.

Better days ahead, K. Better days will come.

I stepped out of the toilet stall where I'd been hiding while doing some arms-above-the-head, standing yoga poses. I could barely breathe the first time I read the rejection letter.

With my last panic episode months ago being the worst one I’ve had so far, I actually did some research. Turns out I had an anxiety disorder. I'd tried some self-treatment I read online because, if I hadn't, Miles would've dragged me to a psychiatrist in a heartbeat. Which was the last thing I would go for. My bank account said enough. Seeing a shrink? Just out of the question. For now, at least.

"How true is it that his family's filthy rich?" Jill's voice drifted off to a whisper, her tone curious and a bit playful.

"They run two businesses, I think."

"Sounds accurate. The rumors are true, then," Jill muttered on the other end. "By the way, Mom told me to remind you to submit another application to NYU School of Med."

Ugh. Not again... 

I rolled my eyes. I'd applied to that same school two years ago. So far, not even a short rejection letter to show my folks. Hence my decision to move to another country to try working as a model here because, apparently: no hard cash, no medical degree.

"K, she really wants you home," my sister went on. "She found videos of Miles drinking and partying. So now, Mom and Dad are more convinced of your roomie's bad influence."

"Fine. Tell 'em I'll make time this month." I stood alone by the sink, unsure of what else to say.

Although I didn't appreciate the idea of another drastic change in my everyday life, I would submit another slew of scholarship applications to the medical schools in New York just to appease my mother's worries. I frowned.

My entire savings couldn't even pay for half of my tuition should I choose to resume my studies in New York. And now my parents wanted me to quit my only job and go back to university?

After saying goodbye to Jill over the phone, I let my shoulders droop.

It wasn't until I heard a clicking sound that my senses went on full alert again, acknowledging the complete silence around me. The bathroom looked clean, and the lights stayed bright enough, but the space was still rather small. The tension was again building up in my chest.

Darn those rejection letters. I should have just thrown them in the trash right away. Shouldn't have read them over and over. It shouldn't have bothered me that much, but I still hightailed it. Packed up and left New York. Left my family and friends just like that.

Luck was on my side when I'd met Miles again, or else I wouldn't have mustered up the will to just move away from home and make a living in a foreign country. And owing to his laudable niceness and very generous parents, I was able to follow through. If someone asked me, I'd honestly say I now loved my life here in Italy.

Then my message alert tone paused my train of thought again. It should be Miles. I checked my phone. Yep. He sent a reply: "Just parked in the far left. Where u at?"

"Thanks. Omw out." I sent the reply fast, mindful of my dizzy, aching head and cold hands. I shoved my phone back inside my satchel and headed out of the ladies' room.

It's just a short walk. Five minutes tops. Deep breaths...

No negative thoughts.

"You're fine. Miles is waiting out there," I reminded myself.

A minute later, I started jostling my way out of the crammed lobby, politely mumbling "Excuse me" and "Sorry" every now and then. My vision began to blur when a ringing in my ear intensified, drowning out the party music playing over the blaring speakers, the sounds of champagne glasses tinkling, high heels click-clacking, and the loud buzz of the conversations around me.

Jeez. I needed to get out of here. Now.

My stomach rumbled again. I took another deep breath and kept up a steady pace. I could make out the sidewalk behind the building's wide windows. There weren't as many people loitering by the entrance—twenty or so.

To seem perfectly normal, I smiled at the guard who opened the entrance door for me. "Hi." I put on a smile, which disappeared soon enough when I made it out the huge glass doors.

An array of vehicles lined either side of the sunlit street. I started my hasty strides towards the parking lot, thankful that my intakes of breath weren't as forced and noisy. Street noises echoed around while my eyes skimmed the multi-colored lines of parked cars.

My anxious search didn't last a minute because I soon caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired guy in a familiar pair of sneakers. He stood by a black sedan with his back to me, his attention held by his cellphone.

Ah...my happy pill.

I wanted to call out to him, but my throat felt funny, almost compressed.

"Hey." Miles spotted me and put his phone away, his brisk steps accompanied by dark, scrunched brows. Old paint smudged the hem of his wrinkled shirt. During season breaks, if he wasn't doing print jobs, Miles spent days and nights in his studio just painting and painting until he eventually lost either inspiration or concentration.

"What's up?" Miles asked upon reaching my side. His brows crumpled more when he noticed I'd gone stiff as a board in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Let's go home," I managed to say without stuttering.

My timid response seemed to bother him. Miles pulled me close to his side. He even bent down to peer at my face. "What?"

"Later," I mumbled before handing him my bag. Miles had already placed his arm around my back. I sped up my steps even though his ride sat a few cars away. My fingers curled inside my pockets while I blinked away the dizziness and warm tears filling my tired eyes.

"You look like you're gonna be sick."

"Just hungry." I glanced behind and fought the urge to cry, holding back the other reason why I felt like I was going to bawl any second now. 

... Crybaby. No one really likes you. You don't take anything seriously.

You're a quitter. You made that conscious choice over and over. Live with it...

Ugh. The negative thoughts still lingered. I should just sleep it off the minute we get home.

I tried my best not to cry as Miles and I rushed along the busy sidewalk.

"You sure?" Miles didn't seem to believe me, probably because he could easily spot my lies. We reached his parked car in no time.

"Let's just go home."

"You okay or d'you need to throw up?" Miles opened the passenger door for me and leaned against his car. "You don't wanna eat out? Or we could grab dinner along the way."

"I'm good," I said when he kept waiting for me to speak up. "Just having a nervous breakdown." 

◇