My Italian Billionaire: A BWWM Italian Billionaire Romance

Lucca Greccio hated interruptions, and right now, his cell ringing was the last thing he wanted. One glimpse at the caller ID—his father's lawyer—had him pushing aside Olivia and answering.

"Oh," she huffed, crossing her arms over her fake breasts.

He ignored her. Fussy and demanding, she bored him. He planned on this being their last romp, but it would have to wait. "Mr. Valet, what is it? I'm a little preoccupied at the moment."

Olivia giggled and kissed his bare shoulder.

With a grimace, he jerked away from her and stood. The hotel room was decent sized, not as big as he preferred, but suitable for his purposes. "Mr. Valet?" he growled as he picked up his boxers from the floor and shimmied them up his hips. Now dressed somewhat, he strolled to the balcony. Holding the phone away from his mouth, he said, "Call up room service."

Her cat-like eyes widened and brightened. Nothing got her happier than spending his money, the main reason why he wanted to be rid of her. She wasn't anything special, just like all the others. After him for his money or his looks. Although maybe it was the type of girl he sought that was the issue.

He closed the balcony door behind him. "Mr. Valet, you called me. My time is precious—"

"Lucca, your father's time has run out."

"Excuse me?" Lucca gripped the railing. Rolling waves of the ocean far below should be a soothing sight, but all he could hear was the crash and boom of a growing tempest.

"Lucca, I regret to inform you that your father has passed away."

He closed his eyes. When he had last seen his father, two months ago, he had been in perfect health. "How?"

"A sudden huge heart attack."

Lucca opened his eyes and turned around to see a hotel employee rolling in their room service. On the plate, all Lucca saw was a puddle of grease. His stomach churned.

"Did he suffer?" he asked quietly.

"No. It was quick and most likely painless."

That was good, wasn't it? Lucca and his father hadn't always seen eye to eye, having butted heads since Lucca became a teenager. What sixteen-year-old didn't want a car of his own since Father wouldn't allow anyone else to drive any of his six different models? He was now an orphan, since his mother had died fifteen years ago, and he was also now a millionaire.

But he couldn't think about money now. His father was dead. At fifty-two, his father had been a bull of a man, and he'd assumed he'd reach at least one hundred. For all of their differences, and there had been many, his father had been a rock, the only constant in the ever-churning sea that was his life.

"I'll take the first flight back home." He was currently in Athens for no other reason than that he had never been to Greece yet. In two days, he was supposed to be flying on to Italy to visit family. Home was back in New York.

"See that you do."

"I'll have to handle the funeral arrangements and…" He rubbed his forehead. A popping sound came from the room. Champagne. Would drinking help, or should he just take ibuprofen?

"If you call me once you arrive, we can arrange a time for me to read the will."

Somehow, the thought of it soured his stomach. "Do you know what it says?"

"Ah…"

His fingers rubbed his temple. "Just tell me what you know, Mr. Valet."

"It would be better if—"

"Please." A word he rarely ever used.

"Very well then. Your father has a stipulation written into the will concerning the company."

Lucca blinked. The sun was setting, streaking reds and oranges above the blue-green waters, the light too bright for his worsening migraine. "What kind of a stipulation?"

"It seems, Lucca, that your father feared you would never settle down—"

He barked a laugh. "Whatever gave him that impression?"

The scores of women he dated? How could he help it that women fawned over him? He enjoyed life, enjoyed women, enjoyed fine food and vacations. He also worked hard. Father demanded it. "For when you run the company, my boy, when all this will be yours."

"What is the stipulation?" he asked when the lawyer kept his silence.

"You turn thirty in three months."

"Yes," Lucca admitted, not liking where this was headed.

"If you are not married before that date, you will not inherit his company. Your shares will be—"

"I won't… Father couldn't have… I've worked my fingers to the bone to do everything he asked and this is how he repays me?"

Silence grew, cold and heavy.

Lucca winced. "I didn't mean—"

"I'm sure you didn't. He does understand how hard you worked. He was prouder of you than you realize, I'm sure."

"Then why this…" He wanted to add "preposterous," but refrained, "why this stipulation?"

"Because he wished to ensure the Greccio line would not die out."

Die out. His father was dead. Only now did the news truly sink in. Lucca leaned against the glass balcony door.

"Having women is one thing," the lawyer added.

Lucca snorted. His father often called his girlfriend’s whores and gold diggers, all unworthy of being associated with the greatness that was the Greccio’s. His father had been a proud man. Arrogant too, but most everyone admired him.

Maybe his father did have a point. But children? He bought condoms in bulk. The idea of having a baby was almost enough for him to want to break out into hives. Not that he hadn't thought about settling down and starting a family. One day. A day far into the future. Not within three months.

"Having a wife is quite another," Mr. Valet added.

"So I gather." Lucca turned around. Through the glass, he watched as Olivia shoved in food as if she hadn't just eaten dinner in a five-star restaurant an hour ago. She was beautiful, almost model-like, but there wasn't any way he could ever even contemplate marrying her. Especially since he had already been planning on ending things with her.
Basically, no more sex.

Sex. The basis of most of his female relationships. Probably not the best way one went about finding a wife.

How did one find a suitable marriage partner? And in only three months.

Time was a tickin'.

Chapter Two: The Funeral

Rain battered down on the host of black umbrellas, so frantic and feverishly that the drops almost drowned out the words from the pastor's mouth. Surrounded by extended family, Lucca shouldn't feel so alone, but he did.

Mr. Valet had gone over the final details of the will earlier that morning. The clause was binding. Without a wife, Lucca would not only lose his claim on the company but he would no longer have his millions. If he hadn't worked tirelessly beside his father to make the business such a success and earn every cent of those millions, he might not have cared so much. His father had taught him that only those who worked hard should reap the benefit, and he had taken that message to heart.

So why do I have to marry then?

After the funeral, the burial, and then the luncheon, Lucca made his excuses and made his way to his father's house. Mansion might be more apt. He should probably sell the place, but throughout making all of the arrangements for today, he had been staying here, and another few nights wouldn't hurt.

He climbed the grand staircase and entered his father's room. It truly was fit for a king with a canopy bed, ornate furniture, and a balcony. Over the dresser was a large oval photograph of Lucca's mother. A pretty picture of perfect Italian loveliness. Another woman like her couldn't possibly exist. As a boy, he had idolized her, and he knew how much his father had adored her.

From his father's nightstand, he removed their wedding album and settled down at the roll top desk. Identical magical smiles graced their faces on every page, and their expressions of happiness served as a slap in the face.

This was why his father had the stipulation in his will. He had experienced a love so deep it transcended time and death, and he wished the same for his playboy son.

And, truth be told, Lucca wanted that too.

***

"I don't get it. Why don't you just marry Olivia or Heather or Greta or—"

"No, Paul." Lucca suppressed a sigh. He had just exited the coffee shop when his best friend called to check up on him. Paul was a businessman too and had been stuck out of the country for work, leaving him unable to come to the funeral a week ago.

"Why not? It didn't sound like it said you had to be married for a certain length of time. If it doesn't work out, you can just divorce—"

"No, Paul. You don't understand—"

A woman plowed into him. Somehow, none of his coffee landed on his golf shirt and designer jeans, but dark liquid seeped onto her cream top. She hissed and jumped back.

"Call you back." Lucca hung up. "Are you all right?"

Chocolate eyes stared up at him, darker and deeper than any he had seen before. Black impossibly long lashes surrounded them, nestled in a dark face. Her curly black hair bounced as she shook her head. "I-I'll be fine. I'm sorry. I…"

"It was my fault." It hadn't been; at least, he didn't think it had been his fault, but he had been distracted by his cell so it could very well have been. "Please, let me help." Feeling flustered—when did he ever feel flustered?—he started to hand her the napkin he held around his hot coffee cup, but then thought better of it and started to pat her shirt. When he dabbed higher, toward her breasts, she covered his hand with hers and took the napkin from him.

"I'll take it from here." She paid more attention to her shirt than to him.

For a moment, he stood there, dumbfounded. A woman who didn't give him a second glance. That didn't happen every day.

His lips parted so he could offer to buy her a replacement shirt, but he swallowed the words. For some reason, he didn't want her to see him as anything other than an ordinary guy instead of the playboy millionaire he was.

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