Unconventional (The Manhattanites #4) (4 page)

She’d beaten cancer. Her will to live, and the early diagnosis, had given her a good chance for survival.
Jemma Fereti is the strongest woman I know. An original. There’s no one like her.

Words… I didn’t have any. I struggled for what to say next. Uncertainty aroused deep inside me, which was a first. Usually I was in control, knew what I want, and got it, too. But right then? Nothing appeared to be working in my favor.

“
Dolce
, Luigi and I are serious.” Rocco’s voice rose. Arching his back, he continued, “He’s going to ask you one more time. Give us your answer,
per favore
.”

A sense of hope made me focus as I repeated, “Will you marry us?”

In silence, we waited.

Over the cliff, the wind blew in from the ocean upon us. Jemma’s black hair had been growing back since her therapy, and it covered her eyes. Rocco bit his nails faster the longer he couldn’t see her face.

Her chin turned up a bit, causing the sun to cast a halo over her. Since the day we’d met, she’d been our angel, our white light for happiness.

Today, will all that change?

Every fiber of my body tensed, and I hated the feeling. Usually I was a confident man.

“No…I can’t…I won’t. There’s no need or room for marriage in our lives.” She placed the palm of her delicate hand on Rocco’s broad chest. “If you want children so badly, you have my permission to have another woman carry your baby. Regardless, I don’t think I have much left in me to give to a child, not after what I’ve been through. Being a mom takes a lot of energy. You’ll need to raise that child on your own or with Luigi.”

His tan skin illuminated with tears, flooding his face. He pushed his wavy, black hair behind his ears.

My heart broke. I hated to see him suffer.

“And Luigi, if you want to wed, take Rocco’s hand in marriage. The two of you can sign the papers. Nevertheless, my darling, it’s not going to change anything between us. I love what we have, but if matrimony is what you want—some lifetime guarantee—I won’t stand in your way of happiness.”

Taking in what she’d said, I dipped my chin in acknowledgment but gave no reply.

“I’m sorry,
amore
,” she mouthed in my direction.

Breathe. Just breathe.

I couldn’t.

Her refusal was as if I was hearing the doctor say she’d had breast cancer all over again.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I only saw black. A sense of grave hopelessness washed over my optimistic spirit. I didn’t think it was possible to feel a chill in the warm sun, on that beautiful island, and surrounded by evergreen. Nevertheless, I did. As if we were in the Arctic, snow falling upon us.

“Our
happiness
is with you, Jemma.” In a numb voice, I reminded her how important she was to us, and then kissed her on the lips.

When her mouth broke from mine, she whispered in my ear, “Can we go on…with what we have?”

I pulled back and asked, “What do you mean?”

“The three of us, loving each other. Even if that means you won’t be calling me your wife or the mother of your children?”

Alarmingly, my pulse skittered. Clenching my jaw, I realized we were making compromises about our relationship. My eyes snapped shut, trying to block out the truth that I wanted marriage, to see Rocco be a
padre
. Lying through my teeth, I answered, “
Sì
, I’m sure.”

I don’t have the heart to call it quits. Not now. Probably not tomorrow, either.

“
Grazie
, I love you.” Her slender hand slinked behind the back of my neck as relief graced her lips in the expression of a smile.

Chest rising, inhaling through my mouth, I attempted to return the gesture but couldn’t.

Sad. Pissed off. This wasn’t how love was supposed to go. Was it? However, I couldn’t see my life without her.

Together, we faced Rocco.

His nose shiny, red.

“
Bello
, can’t we just keep things the way they are?” she asked.

“Give me some time to process this—” He turned into himself. “I don’t know what I want. But I
do
know I don’t want to be without you two.”

A yearning of wanting it to work, more than ever, rocketed through me. Rocco was so vulnerable. He needed us, and we needed him. Didn’t Jemma see how we couldn’t live without her?

As we watched Jemma head back to our private oasis on the beach, I slipped the diamond into my front pocket. The ring would never adorn
dolce’s
finger.

The pain in my heart, as if I’d just been stabbed, made it hard to even look at Rocco. I should’ve stood my ground. But who gives their girlfriend an ultimatum when proposing marriage? I didn’t expect it to turn out like this. Such a disaster.

The hand he’d been nervously biting started to bleed. I reached for it, giving him a squeeze.

“One day this isn’t going to be enough for me. I want more for my life. I deserve it, too,” he said and hugged me.

“I know you do,
bello
,” I muttered. “I do, too.”

We’d just said our piece to move on in our own life directions. Maybe not that day. Maybe not the next. However, someday, the notion of not getting married and having children with Jemma might destroy Rocco and me if we stayed in the relationship for too long.

Damn Vive Farnworth! My career is O-V-E-R

Jemma

Present Day

The Girasoli Garment Company Corporate Office, Milan, Italy

Merda!

On a scale from one to ten. One being…craporama. Ten being…the effin’ fudgesicle worst day of my cat-litter stinking life. That day, the day after my couture fashion collection had hit the European runways, I, Jemma Fereti, former runway supermodel turned fashion designer, was having an eleven.

Yup. That’s way worse than smelling cat pee. Trust me.

Damn that Vive Farnworth at
Debauchery
magazine and her nasty ass editorial.

With my cell in my hand, I glared at the article on the screen so hard I thought my corneas would surely catch on fire. Or worse, my eyeballs might just pop out of their socket and soar across the room as two Ping-Pong balls, bouncing off Lex, Taddy, and Blake, who stood before me.

Vive’s headline read,
“Jemma Couture’s NEW Fashion Collection is Shit.”

That was exactly what it said.
Shit.
Clear as the Tuscan sun and to the point. I plus fashion equals…poop.

My fashion collection that season which I’d so fondly titled Death Star Galactica was a failure.

This was bad. So very bad.

Almost as horrific as the time I’d learned my career as Europe’s highest paid runway model was over. Dead in the water. Overnight, I’d become…unbookable. Why? Cause I’d turned thirty-frickin’-five. The fashion industry was ruthless. Hence why that afternoon I was freaking the fudge out.

Almost as bad as the time my
madre
had passed away and I’d told my
padre
at the funeral that I was in a poly relationship with two of the most wonderful men on the planet.

I’d thought he’d be happy for me. Didn’t he want to see my needs were being taken care of? That I was A-Okay.

Umm. No!

Giving an ultimatum, he’d argued, “I didn’t spend over a million dollars, put you in Milano’s best schools, and raise you to be a
signora
to have you turn into the laughingstock of Italy. You’re not a whore. Either
they
go or
I
do.”

Cool as gelato, I’d kept calm, but had eventually lost my patience and declared, “
Padre
, I didn’t survive a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery in my thirties to have you tell me how to live my friggin’ life.
Arrivederci
.”

The Big C and little ta-ta was what I had.
But the Big C and little ta-ta isn’t who I am. No fucking way, my darlings. I refuse to let it define me. I’m a fighter. I’m a survivor.

Regardless, my heart broke that day my
padre
had protested my relationship. He’d never understand, so we hadn’t talked since. Did I miss him?
Sì.
But I had to live my life by
my
rules, not his. Maybe I was selfish. After my diagnosis and treatment, I realized life goes by in a blink, and it’s too short to not do as you please.
And I am doing exactly that.

Which leads me to the third worst moment of my so-called fabulous life. I already told ‘ya what it was…

That day was almost as scary as the time the doctor had said, “Jemma, you have breast cancer.” Mentally, I’d never recovered from the mastectomy. Physically, Milan’s top plastic surgeon had reconstructed my breasts after I’d kicked the Big C in the ass. To be honest, they looked better than they did before the diagnosis. Implants. Never thought I’d have two artificial silicone pillows put in me, but damn, they look fucking fabulous.

I have been cancer-free for the two years.
Knock on wood.
My breasts seem and sometimes feel real, but having mine removed wasn’t just a shock to my system. Cancer had destroyed my sense of self. My boyfriends don’t see the fear I have: that it’ll come back, that one day I could get sick again. I wouldn’t survive the next time around, I already knew it.
More about that later. Much later. I need to keep my mind on work.

One would think after having their father disown them, experiencing the career highs and lows I have, and battling breast cancer I wouldn’t get that stressed out—not anymore. After all, this is Death Star Galactica. Only fashion, not world peace. Regardless, I was indeed stressed.

Sì
, it was the fourth worst day of my life. For sure.

I stood in front of my colleague’s desk, Lex Easton. The day before, she’d flown in from Manhattan to help me with the fashion show.

“This is…horrible.” Slouched over the keyboard, she glared at the local newspaper and shrieked for the umpteenth time, “Horrible!”

Oh, all right. I should be honest and state it wasn’t only
Debauchery
magazine which had slammed my latest work. No, my darlings! How about the
Milano News, New York Times, London Herald,
and
Paris Tribune
to boot. Pretty much every blog, newspaper, magazine, and TV station from New York to Timbuktu had ripped my latest creations to pieces.
I’m ruined. Ruined, I tell you.

“Say something!” I shouted around the room at everyone, resting my eyes upon Taddy Brill.

Strikingly gorgeous. Think Rita Hayworth. Unusually tall. The woman radiates beauty even during moments of high client drama, such as this one. Figures. That’s why she works in public relations.

Taddy owns the PR firm the Girasoli Garment Company retains to promote our brands, Easton Essentials and Jemma Couture. In hopes of saving me from the catastrophe, she’d jetted in from New York after the Milan show tanked with her business partner, Blake Morgan.
Miracles do happen, so per favore, God, I for sure need one.

“Give me a minute. I’m...thinking.”

She wouldn’t even make eye contact with me.

You know it’s bad when your own publicist can’t even stand the sight of you. I’d love to curl up into a ball right now, stuff my face with a fist full of Mint Milano cookies, and die. Just die, I tell you.

She hid behind her thick, wavy, gorgeous red hair, and picked at her long acrylic nails. I wanted to shake her like a piggybank but instead of coins falling out, I’d be loaded with ideas on how to fix my fashion line.

“Tsk. Tsk.” Blake, Taddy’s cohort, stood next to her. He kept making this annoying noise, shaming me with his beautiful lips as if I were a poodle who’d just taken a whiz on the carpeting. I was tempted to smack his cute face.

I couldn’t take it anymore. The silence was choking me, so I had to ask.

“Are you going to fire me?”

Air caught in my throat the second that question left my mouth. In fear my legs would buckle, I leaned against the edge of Lex’s desk and crossed my arms. I was either going to black out or vomit. Hopefully not pass out in my own vile.
God, that would suck.

Girl, brace yourself.

While I waited for Lex’s reply, the room started to spin and my peripheral vision blurred. I could already hear her saying, “Fuck yes, you stupid cow.”

The woman has a major potty mouth, FYI.

Without notice, Lex inhaled so loudly, I thought her nostrils might snort up the ivory damask wallpaper decorating the office. Then she said, “If you weren’t my hubbies life-long friend, a woman I respected, and cared for as family…then yes, Jemma, I’d have no choice but to terminate your role as the lead designer on Jemma Couture.”

“On the very label I created?”

She nodded. “If Perry Ellis can fire Marc Jacobs for his grunge collection, we can definitely terminate you over Death Star Galactica.”