Chapter 21

LEVI’S POV

I try to distract myself by looking around Isabella’s living room. I'm struck by its clean and stylish appearance. Despite its minimalist design, it still feels like home, which most minimalist spaces miss. The living room is spacious with a neutral color scheme—mostly whites and grays—with a few black and metallic accents.

A big, comfy gray sofa dominates the space, perfect for lounging with some cute patterned pillows on top. I'm seated in a chair against the wall.

A sleek white TV stand holds a flat-screen TV and a few decorative items, and the curtains are light and airy, adding to the room's open feel. From here, I can see the balcony, which offers a nice view.

Next to the living area, there's a sleek kitchen seamlessly integrated with a marble-topped island that's both functional and stylish. The kitchen has modern appliances and minimalist cabinetry in a matching gray tone, blending perfectly with the living room's look.

I’m impressed with her space.

As I wonder how long it will take Isabella to finish her bath, eager to see her face again, I reflect on the women who have been in my life.

I met my first girlfriend, Angela, in college while studying at Harvard Business School. We were classmates and fell deeply in love at first sight. We were together for over a year. When my father finally met her over dinner, he approved wholeheartedly. Her family owned one of the top law firms in the US and held a lofty social status. Despite occasional arguments, I always remembered how much my father liked her. And I liked her too—she was charming, smart, and ambitious.

However, after graduation, I planned to continue my studies in the UK while she chose to work at her family's firm. The distance strained our relationship. We quarreled frequently, and she even blocked my overseas calls a few times. When I decided to break up and told my father, his response was unexpectedly cold. He didn't protest the breakup, but I could feel his disappointment. I too was disappointed, but not every relationship is meant to last.

After finishing graduate school, I started seeing a second girlfriend. My father visited the UK on a business trip, and I introduced her to him over dinner. After she left, my father remarked that I resembled my British mother. I've only seen her in photographs, where she appeared strikingly beautiful—blue doe eyes, long brown hair framing her long face, and impeccable dress sense.

My father had loved her deeply for years until she betrayed him by sleeping with another man after my birth. Learning of her affair shattered him, leading him to sever ties with her for good. After they got divorced, he never remarried.

I couldn't help but think my father loved and hated my mother equally after her betrayal. Those conflicting emotions seemed to transfer to me after their divorce.

Growing up, my father was strict with me, setting numerous rules and expectations. Despite his tough love, he poured his heart into my upbringing. Yet, he couldn't hide his resentment, particularly towards my hair, which resembled my mother's, and my eyes. Sometimes his remarks turned bitter, as if he were addressing her through me. It wasn't my fault that I looked like my mother, though at times when I was little, the way he would look at me with scorn and disdain made me wish I didn’t look like her.

In our dysfunctional family, I found myself striving for my father's love and approval above everything else, almost as if to make up for my mother's betrayal. Fulfilling his goals became my top priority.

After ending things with my second girlfriend, Lydia, during my final year of graduate school—a breakup she initiated, saying she could never find complete and reckless love in me—I was left bewildered.

What the hell did that mean? I'm a well-educated man. In my finance studies, I learned that everything, even emotions, has a price and can be traded. How could such pure, unbridled love exist? It was beyond my comprehension. For her to think it existed made me laugh. I mean, look at my mother and father—they thought they were in love, but now all that exists is hate.

Following that breakup, I avoided relationships altogether for nearly a decade, remaining single and only having sex when I needed to.

Anytime my father saw me with a new girl, he labeled me a playboy and said, “You are just like your whore of a mother.”

Nothing hurt me more than hearing him say that. It stung every time until it didn’t hurt anymore, and I continued to have fun.

After graduation, I dove into an eight-year stint at a Wall Street investment bank. But when my father's company started sponsoring Ferrari, my attention shifted. I could already imagine the progress I could make at the company. The new energy and life I could bring to it and how I would turn it into the very best.

When I returned to Italy, I offered to run the company, but my father refused. He wanted to still be in charge, but I didn’t let that dissuade me. I immersed myself in team news and management meetings. The shock of Ferrari's drop to fifth place last season prompted my father and the team to agree that I should take over as manager this year.

I accepted without hesitation, but my father's charge not to disappoint him weighed heavily on me. Nights at my estate in northern Modena became restless. I sat alone, staring into the darkness until dawn, trying to maintain control over my thoughts and think of the best new strategies for the company.

I know my workers are not very fond of me. Most hate my guts, but they will never understand the pressure I'm under. Speaking to Isabella as Mr. L opened my eyes to things I could do to make my workers happier, like this casual day today.

Isabella has been a turning point in my life. Right now, as I listen to the shower running in the bathroom, I wonder if I should throw caution to the wind and join her. What's the worst that can happen anyway?