Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“Cristiano… what are you doing? What’s so important that you need to talk to me right now?”
“What’s on the bucket list, Isabel? It’s been killing me all day.”
She laughs with surprise. “Is that what’s bothering you? It’s all silly things!”
“Give me an example.”
“Like I said earlier, it’s little adventures like trying sangría and surfing and going to a crazy dance party. Harmless.”
I don’t buy it. The way she looked at me earlier when she brought it up, the heat laced through her words—I know there’s more to it.
“What else?”
“Visiting Hippy Market Punta Arabí. Cliff jumping. Skinny-dipping.” Her voice drops on the last one so that I barely hear it.
“Speak up.”
“Skinny-dipping,” she stresses.
I don’t respond, and I imagine her chewing on her bottom lip, squirming in the silence.
“Did I scare you off?”
The sound of her hesitant voice causes a smile to spread across my lips. If she only knew…
“What else?”
There’s no way skinny-dipping is the most scandalous thing on there. Not by a mile.
“There’s not much else,” she promises in a rush. “I’ll show you the list the next time I see you. When will that be?”
“I don’t know. I’m a busy guy, Isabel.”
“My, my. Is this phone call going to cost me? What’s your time worth? A hundred euros a minute?”
“Say your goodbyes!” Simone calls out from the other room. “I’m not going to lie about in bed listening to you two having kinky phone sex. Some of us need a decent night’s rest around here.”
Isabel laughs lightly. “Cristiano? I have to go…”
And with that, I have no choice but to say good night.
Monday morning, my life unfolds with the same routine as always: scalding-hot coffee, a boring but efficient high-protein breakfast, thirty minutes of intense cardio capped with the first of two weekly phone calls with my investment advisor, Nicholas Burton, a sixty-eight-year-old London financier so dull and monotone I accidentally tune him out half the time. Our calls always follow the same script, and they never veer offtrack. We run through my investment strategies, he gives me feedback on my current holdings, and I ensure that my substantial nest egg—the money I began socking away as soon as I started earning a profit at my first bar—continuously grows. What I spend on my homes and my cars and my yacht is all excess. My real money I keep out of harm’s way, divided up into stocks, bonds, mutual funds, fine art, and real estate. Spreading my assets wisely and keeping a close watch on them means I’ll never again have to endure the terrifying reality my family faced after my father was forced to file for bankruptcy. Going from having everything to nothing overnight, watching my father break down, begging me for money—I’ll never be the same person I was before that. Even now, it makes my heart pound to consider it.
So while Nicholas and I don’t need to speak twice a week every week, I won’t have it any other way. It’s the only thing that gives me peace of mind. Well, that and continuing the eternal work grind. Isabel asked me yesterday what motivates me. Without a doubt, it’s my father’s failures. I won’t make his same mistakes.
Once I hang up with Nicholas, I shower and head into Colectiva Isla Blanca’s offices. We’re housed in a building off Via Romana, where we take up the entire second floor. Beneath us there’s retail space, and above are five floors of condos. I’ve owned the building for the last seven years and I’m considering buying the property next door as well.
Only a handful of people work out of our corporate offices: my office manager, my chief financial officer, and the marketing team, as well as Carmen, my assistant. Carmen has been with me since the start. She used to work as a server in one of my restaurants, but when she mentioned her interest in finishing her degree in business, I offered to pay for her schooling if she agreed to come work for me once she was finished. She’s closer to my mom’s age, with four grandchildren whose photos take up every available square inch of her office. I wonder what I would put in my office, but I don’t keep one here. There’s no need.
I knock on her door and hold up a cup of coffee.
She smiles when she sees me, thanking me for the drink. Her red billowy summer dress reminds me of something Dolores would wear.
“You didn’t need to bring me this,” she admonishes before taking a sip and smiling. She’s a sucker for a cortado, and I like to keep my staff happy. Besides, I felt like having a second cup myself.
I take a seat in the chair in front of her desk and she hands me the iPad. It’s already loaded with my schedule for the next two weeks, but before we get to business, I ask about her family.