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They might not be related by blood, but he’d thought of the guy as his brother for almost three decades. Obviously, he wanted the best for him.
Which was why he’d pushed aside the emotional shitshow that was his life and forced himself to go to the wedding without making a fuss. He interacted with people as required, posed for the damned photos, but that was where he drew the line. He didn’t talk to his parents more than was absolutely necessary, and as soon as the cake had been cut, he slipped out of the party and went to his room, preferring to be alone rather than under the spotlight of so many guests.
He set the scotch bottle down on the counter and moved to the fully stocked bar.
Valentino hotels were renowned for their luxury and the penthouses were next level.
He removed a red wine from Napa, uncorked it and poured a glass. It was excellent—robust and full of flavour—he drank more quickly than he should have.
Prior to this week, Leandro had not been a man to drink alone. Not more than the occasional glass of scotch, anyway, at the end of a long day. This week had changed him.
It had changed everything.
He placed the glass of wine down on top of the bar, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. His insides were spinning, his organs in a strange, wonky state of discombobulation. He wanted to go back in time to when things had been simple, to when he’d known where, when and with whom he belonged. But he couldn’t. There was no rewinding time, no disputing facts.
At first, when he’d seen the reference to his adoption in a huge pile of documents he’d requested from the family law firm, he thought there’d been a mistake. He’d actually laughed. Because he was a Valentino through and through. He had the same strength, height, symmetrical features, dark eyes. He was one of them. He’d asked his parents almost as a way of bringing them in on the humorous error, but one look at his mother’s pale face and his father’s shaking hands had sent a blade of lightning through his gut.
It was no mistake.
He was not a Valentino.
He reached for the glass of wine without looking and when his fingers brushed the stem, they missed, knocking it over and onto the thick, cream carpet.
He swore, the spreading red stain a perfect metaphor for the mess of his life. He stared at it for several seconds, knowing he should do something to clean it up. He hadn’t been raised to disrespect property. It didn’t matter how many billions he had to his name, his mother—or whatever she was—would never have let him leave a mark like that.
Only, he was so angry with her.
So angry with her decisions.
So angry with the secret she’d kept from him, the lie she’d told every day she’d let him call her mama. He was just so angry in general.
He ignored the wine, but recognized the gnawing feeling in his stomach was more than just churning rage. He stabbed a finger against the phone on one of the occasional tables. It connected him to the VIP Concierge straight away.
“Signore, how may I help you this evening?” A male voice came down the line.
“I need dinner,” he clipped.
“Of course, sir. Anything in particular?”
Great question. What did he feel like?
Nothing, if he were honest. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He’d pushed food around his plate at the wedding, then had a candy bar sometime the day later. On cue, his stomach gave a growl.
“Burger. Fries. Pizza. Lobster. Spring Rolls.” Suddenly, how much he hadn’t eaten in the past few days caught up with him. “Some kind of cake. And another bottle of scotch.”
“Of course, sir. Right away.”
Leandro hung up the phone and dropped his head forward, staring at his bare feet.
The world seemed to tilt beneath him, but not from the alcohol he’d rapidly consumed. No, that’s just how it was now. He was untethered, adrift, a lost soul, with no idea where he belonged, nor with whom, and he truly thought that would never change.
It was just about the least professional thing Skye could do but she stifled a yawn outside the doors to the Presidential Penthouse Suite, pressing the back of her palm to her soft pink lips and blinking quickly to remove the exhaustion from her eyes. She couldn’t believe she’d been roped into doing a double shift again, her fourth in a row. She’d wanted to get home on time tonight, to check on Harper, who’d seemed grizzly that morning—most unusual for her daughter. She pushed aside the maternal worry about her little girl, hoping she wasn’t getting sick. Skye hated it when Harper was sick. She hated it because the little almost-two-year old was ordinarily such a bundle of energy, so seeing her wan and pathetic and needing to sleep so much pulled at all Skye’s heartstrings. But it was even worse because she couldn’t just be with her. All Skye wanted to do when Harper was sick or tired was to cancel work, her whole life, and bundle Harper up in blankets and cuddles, holding her dear little body tight. To simply listen to her sweet, soft breaths, inhaling the scent of her hair, feel her rose-petal soft limbs. Instead, more often than not, she had to hand the little girl over to her mother Irena and run out the door to work.
Because, bills.
Because, responsibility.
Because, she was alone, and no one else could help her with the mess her life had become.
