20 Chapter 20

Aarib's POV

Punch.

Kick.

Punch.

Kick.

Sweat drips down on the mat like a drizzle of rain, covering the whole of my body. I just stand in a vest and biker shorts, taking out all of my aggression on this punching bag that has become my best friend. But obviously I'm not quite treating it well and using it for my very own needs—of course—because it's a stupid punching bag. Not a human.

I wish it were a human I was beating to the plump.

Life is a damn mess.

I am a damn mess.

Everything around me is a damn mess.

I'm totally, completely shattered.

Screwed.

Broken beyond repair.

If people called me heartless before, they definitely called me a monster now.

Except the thing is, a monster could still be tamed, calmed down. Isn't that what that stupid Disney movie princess did? What was her name—Bell? She fell in love with him and he went from being the monster he had gotten back to being a charming, handsome prince.

Illusione perfetta.

Perfect illusion.

I throw a hard punch one last time before falling on the bed behind me and gasping hard, pushing the wet hair out of my face. My breaths are coming in breathless gasps, my heart hammering inside my chest. My knuckles are officially bleeding again and I literally couldn't care less. I stopped boxing with the gloves two weeks back and since then whenever the skin of my knuckles would torn open, Feroze would ask his secretary—more like a toy he plays with—to put an ointment on which did little to no help considering I tore them open again.

Also, I hate when she touches my hand.

Yesterday I banned her from entering my room or coming anywhere near me.

She makes me sick to the point where I want to claw at my skin and throw her to the wolves and take my sweet time watching her suffer.

Today I'll probably fire her. I don't care if my brother throws a hissy fit. He's had his own ways for quite a time now. Now, I will make the rules.

I've come to Italy for a business deal with our enemies. Must I say, dealing with mob business and the capos' is a big headache and also a danger to our lives. Our: mine, Hatim's and Sheru's.

Why my friends are here is a long story I am not in the mood to tell.

Bear with it.

The door to my room bursts open.

"Ever heard of the word 'privacy'?" I call out to Hatim who closes the door behind him and walking over to the dresser, grabs the remote and turns on the tv, craning the volume too annoyingly loud.

"What are you doing?" I sit up, giving him a look. He looks like he just encountered a ghost outside.

Hatim runs a shaky hand through his blonde hair. "Shite! She's here."

My first guess is Haya, like always. But that's impossible. She'd never come to Italy.

"Okay. Who?"

"Remember the girl that I always used to gush about? I saw her at the fighting arena once—"

"Ah, the one you fell in love with. You know, love at first sight aren't really my thing." I tried to ignore how my heart sort of stopped beating when the possibility of Haya being here wasn't confirmed.

"Shut up." He flops on the bed beside me, dropping his head in his hands and smelling like cigars. "I saw her. Shite! She's here. She's here in Italy. This is fate. We were destined to cross paths."

"Bro, everything is destined. Can you stop with the deep, emotional crap? You saw her. No big deal. Probably won't see her again."

"At least sound interested you prick," he shoves me hard and I laugh. "You know I like her so much."

"Okay. What does she look like?" I roll my eyes, trying to sound 'interested'.

"She's iquistive. Brown eyes, long gorgeous dark hair though now she's started wearing a scarf. She's also tall—"

"And you're a sucker for tall girls." His description awfully matches Haya's.

"She's different," he mumbles with a dreamy look on. I almost puke.

"Snap a photo of her?" I try to sound more into this talk. Though the lack of interest is evident in my tone. If Hatim detects it, he chooses to let it slide.

He bobs his head up and down, his fake golden locks falling over his forehead. I would never understand why he'd dye his hair. Why would anyone ever want to colour their hair? That's something totally and utterly beyond me.

Hatim takes his sweet time on his phone. With a blush to his cheeks he passes me the phone.

I lower my gaze to the phone—what the heck?

What—

All the oxygen leaves my lungs.

"Is she—is she the one you like?" I grit my teeth, the phone vibrating due to the crushing grip of my hand. Fury travels through my veins, and all I see is red.

And Haya.

How could this even be possible? How could—how could Haya be Hatim's crush? According to Hatim he saw her at the fighting arena years ago, but I know—I am damn sure Haya never went there. Did he lie to me?

My anger takes a sudden turn to south.

"Yeah, she's the one. Man. . .isn't she just perfect?"

Another realization dawns on me.

Haya is in Italy.

What the heck is going on?

A speedball mixture of confusion, hurt, and anger slams into me, almost knocking me unconscious. I had said earlier life was a mess.

It was a disaster now.

My best friend—my best friend has a crush on my girl.

CRAP.

"Hey dude what's wrong? Are you gonna crush my phone or something?" Hatim's voice draws me out of my stupor.

I can't seem to look him in the eye. Crap. CRAP. I have to find her. I have to find her now.

I toss his phone back to him and hoist myself up, going straight to my bathroom to look presentable enough to leave this hotel room.

"I have somewhere I need to be right now," I say over my shoulder, stopping at the bathroom door with my hand hovering over the door knob. I need to know where she is. How do I ask him that without raising suspicion! "Uh, she's very pretty. Where'd you see her?" Real smooth, Aarib.

Although my back is towards him, I can hear the frown in his voice. "Maranega—why are you asking?"

I don't bother replying and disappear inside the bathroom.

My SUV is ready, waiting for me inside the hotel parking lot. Allessandro, my driver in Italy greets me a formal greeting to which I nod my head before he opens the back door for me and I get inside.

"Dove, signore?" Allessandro asks as he slips behind the wheel, the engine roaring to life. *Where to, Sir?*

"Maranega," I inform him. "Drive fast."

I know I'm really pushing my luck right now. She might even not be there. But I am not letting this opportunity go. I have to see her. I have to tell her the reason I left her—and just hope she doesn't hate me too much.

Obviously, she hates me a little bit.

That's justified.

On the drive to the restaurant I do my research, searching for the nearby hotels. There are too many of them where she could be. And did she come here alone? Why did she come to Italy anyway? Maybe for vacations with her family?

A thousand questions are crossing my mind.

I tell the driver to park the car in one of the alleys. I will walk if that means she won't suspect something suspicious with the tinted mirrored car that screams MAFIA.

As I begin walking towards the restaurant with Allessandro just a few feet behind me—he knows he has to keep the distance—my nerves grow franctic. I haven't felt this way in a very, very long time.

The anticipation.

The thrill.

The rush of adrenaline.

It's like calm before the storm.

When I enter the restaurant, as expected, she isn't there. I let not the sudden shift to my mood get the best out of me, but when I get the manager's attention and ask him polity to give me details about her, he has the nerve to refuse.

Wrong. Move. Prick.

I slam a hand down on the table, scoffing. The manager jerks back with the loud thud.

"I'm gonna ask you once again. Did you, or did you not see this girl here some time ago," I half whisper, half growl as I hold up my phone to him with a picture of Haya.

His eyes widen in horror. "I don't—uh yes. Yes she was here around an hour ago."

"Good. Now tell me, was she alone or not?"

The man shakes his head, refusing. "I cannot—we can't tell that Sir."

Guess he doesn't want the easy way out.

I rise to my full height and straighten my spine, cracking the knuckles on my hands. "You see," I read the name on his badge. "Lorenzo, I didn't give you an option. You tell me what I ask, or I will make sure my friend there gets the information I want out of you."

Lorenzo's eyes cut to Allessandro's, flashing with worry. He looks between me and my driver and then sighs shakily.

"She was here with two boys and a girl," he blurts, hesitance visible in his demeanor. "Sir, I am really not supposed to give you any information of our customers."

I focus on his first sentence. "Did the other girl have pink hair?" I prompt further.

He nods.

Haya's here with her family. Obviously on holidays. But why did she choose Italy? She never ever mentioned this place one with me, and I always payed a lot of attention to her every single word.

I leave the restaurant feeling slightly optimistic. Maybe it's the thought that she isn't here with any male friends that makes my mood less sour, or perhaps it's the fact that she somewhere near me.

I close my eyes and sigh. A different form of calm takes over me, making me feel as if I am floating in the air. I would be a liar to not admit that Haya changed me in ways I couldn't even imagine. I went from being aloof to opening up to her about things I never dared mentioning to anyone else.

I run a palm over my face, blowing out a tired breath. My knuckles still need to be cleaned up, and most definitely stitching as well. I haven't even scrubbed away the blood that's now a total cracky mess on my skin.

Allessandro stands some feet away from me on the sidewalk. I beckon him with my hand.

"Sì, signore?"

I speak over the loud traffic, "Go back to the hotel. Don't tell anyone anything. You got it?"

He nods his head in understanding and leaves without another word. The last thing I want is to let anyone know Haya is here. I can only imagine how Feroze would react when he'd find out. He'd probably think I called her here—as if she'd listen to me.

A groan slips from my lips as I stretch my fingers, the pain a dull sting. I should probably get some water and clean the cuts before a stupid infection knocks on my door.

The walk to the nearest grocery store in this scalding weather has left me sweating all over. I hate doing shopping—and yes even buying water is considered that. Shopping, I mean. What's so fun in it, anyway? And why do women literally lovedoing it?

I take a left turn from the shop, and walk a few steps with the water bottle in my hand. I'll probably just tear some fabric from my shirt and use it to clean the blood. Despite the sun setting in the horizon, I can still feel the heat on my skin making me itch all over my body.

I halter in my steps suddenly, my eyes going wide in recognition as I stare at a lady standing a few feet from me, nervously biting her lip and typing something on a very, very familiar phone. I mean, I know this phone is owned by thousands, but there's no mistake in recognizing the cover on it.

That's Haya's phone.

And that's Haya.

I suddenly don't know what to do. My breathing becomes uneven as a whole new panic attack begins to blossom inside me, growing with every torturous second that goes by. Who knew I was such a coward, afraid of a girl who stole my heart months ago.

Not just any girl.

My girl.

She looks beyond confused—of course the language barrier can be a bit problematic—and what is she even doing out here all by herself? Has she learned Italian somehow? Because she surely didn't know how to speak it before. But then again even if she did know the language, I should not be surprised.

That's Haya we're talking about.

I take a step towards her but frown when a somewhat prick comes to stand by her. She jerks back, clearly taken aback. From what I can tell, the man looks high. A whole new form of rage shoots through me, and before I know it, I'm marching in her direction.

They can't see me since their backs are towards me, but I stand inches away and let the prick finish his sentence.

"Have a drink with me," the man sneers, standing way, way too close to her. I notice Haya moves a little away, but that prick closes the distance between them.

My hands ball into fists.

"Uh, no. Please just go away," she replies shakily in her sweet, innocent voice, shifting from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable.

My jaw ticks.

The man snickers. "Un drink," he pushes further. *one drink*

That's the most I can bear.

"Ha detto che non lo vuole," I find myself muttering loud and clear. *she said she doesn't want it*

We can talk about the man later, because the way Haya whips around and almost loses her balance, I can't seem to look anywhere else.

Anger flares inside me when I notice the amount of weight she has lost. I always read and heard that heartbreak makes you lose your appetite but this? This was beyond okay to me. What crap had she done to herself? Did her family not force her to eat anything? I know I'm not the one to make these statements considering she's looking like that because of me—but seriously.

The look in her eyes is. . .foreign. I've never seen it in her, but only in myself in the mirror. They are aloof, brown pools of darkness with a pinch of harshness in them.

She hates me.

I can literally see it myself.

A thousand needles stab my heart at that confirmation.

Of course, there's still a part of me that wishes—now wished she wouldn't despise me. The part which also hoped if I went to her again, she'd forgive me and I'd make her mine. She's still mine though. I wouldn't let anyone have her.

Coming back to the reality.

The man gives off a bark of laughter, and grabs Haya's arm. "Perchè è tua moglie?" Haya winces, and he laughs further. *Why, is she your wife?*

I lower my head and scoff at the man's braveness. With my hands in my pockets, I slowly raise my gaze and level the man with a stare, anger taking hold of me.

I hope he realizes what he just did.

I really hope.

"Devo applaudire al tuo corragio," I spit out, and yank the man by his collar. He lets go of Haya and stumbles forward, losing his balance and falling to the ground with a little scream. *I have to applaud at your bravery*

My eyes connect with Haya's.

I smirk. "Ti manco?" *miss me?*

If the situation was somewhat different, I would have easily laughed at the baffled face of Haya. She seems to be frozen on the spot, her eyes glued to me, widened in pure and utter shock. Surprise, even. It's like she never expected to see me again in years.

"Don't hurt him," are her first words addressed to me.

I chuckle, looking down at the man who had the nerve to touch her. "Don't hurt him? And now why would I do that? Not hurt him, I mean."

She looks between the man and I, hugging her fragile arms around herself. "Because it's not right. Let him go."

"Glad to know there's still something same about you," I observe, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of my stomach.

I bend down, bracing my hands on my thighs and glare daggers at the man. I feel like using him as a punching bag, beating the crap out of him.

"Aarib, stop it. Let the man go," Haya's sweet voice interrupts my violent thoughts.

The man looks scared as crap. Good. I hope he sees the rage bubbling inside of me through my eyes. I hope he understands to never touch her again.

"You're lucky," I grumble, "that I love her." I pull him to his feet. Haya moves back. "If she wouldn't have asked me to stop," I whisper, making sure she doesn't hear me. "You would be in the hospital getting stitches. Now leave, and don't ever touch another woman without her permission. And if I find out that you did, then I will hunt you down."

He frantically nods his head and stumbles away.

And that leaves me and Haya alone—metaphorically, because there's still people all around us.