He's Bad! (1)

Montana's POV

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I wanted to look perfect if nothing else.

I stare at myself in the mirror, but I sneer because it's not enough. My curly hair is just too ugly to suit Mr. Scarpa's taste. I think.

The thought of Mr. Scarpa had invaded my headspace until now. How could a man be so calm even while mourning? The way he casually addressed me when he came here last week… it was prestigious of him.

That day, he left after telling me about the cufflink but he also left me with a clear heart, giving me no reason to doubt him at all.

“You know this cufflink? From where?” he had asked.

“The doctor… I… where I went to take a test at Live Alive Hospital. The doctor, he had the exact same cufflink.”

He was as calm as ever when he admitted: “You mean Dr. Falcone Paz? Yes, we are family friends. Known each other since Adam.”

I had no doubt, and that also cleared the suspicion I had had of him being a dangerous stalker. I had been wondering how he knew I was pregnant, but him saying the doctor was his family friend that day cleared it all. I concluded that maybe, maybe they had casually talked about his employee’s wife—me—coming in for a test.

My only option with the hair was to straighten it and hope that I looked semi-presentable to Mr. Scarpa.

I was to meet Mr. Scarpa today with the lawyer and maybe Alessia, Mr. Scarpa's daughter.

We were going to finalise everything, and I was very happy—sold, even—the moment Mr. Scarpa offered me such a huge deal. He was simply too good to be true, and maybe that was why his wife cheated. He was too good for her. Just like I was too good for Benedetto.

I tried to do some research on that man, Scarpa. I didn’t know his full name, but despite how big of a deal Benedetto bragged about his boss being, the name ‘Scarpa’ didn’t seem to exist anywhere online. No headlines or news, pictures—nothing!

It became clear to me that Benedetto was either exaggerating about the power and wealth of his boss, or he lied to me. Did he ever even tell me the truth? Even once?

The doorbell rang just after I straightened the last curl of my hair and I rushed to answer it. It was the pet police.

This was one of the good things Italy had—police meant for pets. Unlike America, where cats and dogs just lie around dark corners without anyone showing concern.

“Buona giornata,” the pet police officer greeted.

I smiled and nodded.

I never got around to learning this language, which was mostly why I never went out. But this part of Italy mostly spoke English.

“Hello,” I greeted right back.

My dog, Marjorie, suddenly appeared, roaming around my feet. Too bad I had to give her away. Handling Mr. Scarpa’s child along with my unborn is already a handful. Plus, when Mr. Scarpa came, he didn’t give a reaction to my dog so I can’t say for sure if he likes pets or not.

“Sir, this is the dog. She’s Marjorie, a female American breed.”

Marjorie looked up at me, then at the man at the door like she understood what was about to happen, then barked.

The man nodded. “Open for sale or just to help take care of her?” he asked, squatting to touch Marjorie. “She’s beautiful.”

I ignored my pang of unwelcome sadness. “Yes, she is. Which of them will cost me money?”

“Taking care of her for you will cost money, as we can’t manage her along with the other pets alone. It’ll cost you 170 pounds monthly. But if you are giving her up for sale, it can bring you more money. If she is sold, we’d share the money—30 to 70.”

Giving her away is already cruel enough. Why would I want to make money from my own dog?

“You don’t need to give me money if you sell her to someone else,” I murmur, trying and failing to suppress the rising sad tone. Marjorie was the only American I knew here with me in a foreign land. “Just sell her to someone who would take very good care of her.”

“Absolutely.”

I said my last goodbyes to Marjorie and locked the door after they left. I had to be on my way too so as not to be late. I don’t want to disappoint Mr. Scarpa.

Mr. Scarpa had sent an address of where we’d all meet, which I assumed was his company and office. It wasn’t as big as I expected, but on the inside, the building was a bit too luxurious for its plain exterior.

“I’m here to see Mr. Scarpa. I’m Montana Rossi,” I said to the first lady I saw behind the receptionist’s table.

“Excuse me for one moment, Ms. Rossi.”

She arched her eyebrow slightly as I stood boldly before her. Do I have a reason to fear? I came for a job, that’s all. Mr. Scarpa was a good man and he was my last resort here in Italy.

“You are expected, and Mr. Scarpa is not so occupied at this moment. He will see you now, Ms. Rossi.” Saying that, she pointed to a white door in a passage that led to a secluded area.

Mr. Scarpa’s office was located on the ground floor? That’s new. Unless it wasn’t his office at all and I was just making assumptions.

Even if it is, that only shows Mr. Scarpa is not just a good man—he is humble. A man like him is really rare to find. And I don’t know if I was just thinking facts or making assumptions for him simply because he is my last hope and wants to give me a job, but all I think about is how good that man is.

I walked rather shakily, trying to suppress my nerves. He always looked good, even in the darkest of times and colors. I wonder if he had recovered yet from mourning.

God. Why do I care? I’m probably the only one having these stupid thoughts with him at the center.

“You don’t need to knock, just go in,” the lady said from behind.

I nodded and continued walking.

When I got to the door, I reached for the handle but then I suddenly heard my voice. My own voice!

> > > > “Just cum inside of me, Ben, my love… I promise I’d take the pills, just… oh god, my… ah, Ben, faster—”

My throat tightened. That wasn’t meant to be public. That was sex between two married people in their house—me and Ben! How is it coming from behind the door to a building I don’t even know?!

Something inside me snapped. How could he? How dare Mr. Scarpa humiliate me like this? He had no reason to.

I didn’t bother knocking. With all that anger and irritation in me, I pushed the door open…. and froze at the big screen that welcomed me first.

Playing on the big screen was me and Benedetto, my late husband, naked and bare on our matrimonial bed. My upper part was barely covered by Ben’s body, and my nipples were obviously hard. Benedetto was thrusting into me and I… I… I was moaning in ecstasy. I was bare!

How?

I pointed at the man on the left, who was sitting behind a table with his eyes so focused on the screen he didn’t even notice someone had come in. My voice was louder than I meant it to be:

“You sick bastard!”

He immediately turned to face me. Mr. Scarpa.

Mr. Scarpa was calm and composed yet again, even in this situation. He was still in all black. His eyes fell on me like a slow-falling guillotine.

“Montana,” he said with a smooth, unreadable voice. “How do you do?”

How… how dare this man?!

He didn’t let me speak as he raised an eyebrow and pointed to the big screen.

“Oh, this?” he calmly said, like a nouveau riche. “You were aware your husband recorded you every time you both had sex without your consent, right?”

I felt my face go hot. My fingers began to shake.

What nonsense!