MISTRESS

The Italian Way

– A modern fairy tale –

Imprint:

“Mistress—The Italian Way”, Part 2

Original Edition, copyright © 2014 by Delilah J.

www.delilah-jay.com

www.facebook.com/mistresstheitalianway

Delilah J

c/o pellybay films Gmbh

An der Alster 18

20099 Hamburg—Germany

Layout and Production

2014, by Anita Böning

www.typo-im-fluss.de

Pictures

© by Kai Krellenberg

published by

epubli GmbH, Berlin

www.epubli.de

ISBN 978-3-8442-9368-5

For Massi J

All events
described in this book
are fictitious.

Similarities to
living or dead persons
were coincidental
and not intended.

Aelita …

Qui dove il mare luccica

E tira forte il vento

Su una terrazza avanti al golfo di Sorriento

Un uomo abbraccia
una ragazza dopo che aveva pianto

Poi si schiarisce la voce e ricomincia il canto …

I hear Pavarotti singing. His voice is clear, yes, almost loud. That’s how it sounds in this moment here at the cemetery. Silence. Blood drips from my fingers on Amos’ fresh grave. The thorns of the red rose pricked me. Drip, drip … Today is not my birthday and I am definitely not fifteen years old. The thirteenth Godmother was the only one in my life. She was the one that was not invited to the christening. The death curse hovers over me …

Te voglio bene assaie

Ma tanto tanto bene sai …

Tears roll down my cheeks.

“Te voglio bene assaie, ma tanto tanto bene sai …”
Luciano and I sing together. I cry, my voice cries, too.

Una catena ormai

Che scioglie il sangue dint’e vene sai

I can feel my blood freezing in my veins …

Runway for the private aviation, London 6.55 am—my destination: Milano Linate airport, Italy. I am travelling light: A Louis Vuitton handbag, my laptop, documents, make-up, dressed in Chanel, Jimmy Choo shoes size 8, clip-in hair extensions, my Pucci sunglasses and antidepressants. My laptop is a must for writing this fiction. Later the lipsticks will be used for the manual correction of the printed manuscript and, of course, for pronouncing my full voluptuous lips. Accentuation—that’s my holy game! Where is my handbag? I try to find my co-codamol painkillers—here they are!

The Puerto Rican steward hands me the golden liquid: a glass of Roederer Cristal helps me swallow my special pinks much easier! What a cocktail! Soon I can feel a roller coaster in my bloodstream … My steward smiles at me. He knows the game! My best friend Kevin loves him: for his perfect beauty, his soft skin, his Spanish style and, of course, for his tight little ass and his big cock! Juan Carlos is the best ever—at least in this current moment. He adores me, I am his idol, he can read my wishes from my closed eyes and he is in love with my very best friend! He is loyal, devoted, discreet, faithful just like a best girlfriend without premenstrual fluctuations. He is my trolley dolly just for me! And for Kevin.

Permission received from air traffic control: We take off. Not only me but also my companion who is based in the hold of this luxurious Boeing 727 private jet I chartered specially for this occasion. Any smaller jet would have been sufficient for the short journey from London to Milano—maybe a Gulfstream or a Challenger or even a Citation X. But none of these birds would have been able to carry my precious cargo. No room, not enough space for him and his royal blue coffin with golden lilies that accompanies me. There he is—softly bedded in blood red velvet smoothly tickling his skin. He loved to be understate, simple elegance with style. Not noticeable. But this was my dramatic choice of a glamorous last suite for his still existing but dead body!

Flashback: He died of fear. A stich in his heart when the phone call arrived from the UK Inland Revenue followed by three estate agents calling to arrange viewings of the properties in his immense estate. Obviously arranged by his office as he was planning to sell his houses. This one here in Ferrara was his first real home. Living by himself for the very first time ever in his life at the age of fifty-five! Entering the manor house arriving in a huge entrance hall followed by two more foyers, seven bedrooms, a five hundred foot big dressing room—Sarah Jessica Parker as Carrie in Sex and the City—or maybe both—would have been delighted!

And here it is: the indoor swimming pool! He is Mr. Big and this is his life! Five bathrooms with heated toilet seats. Hidden CCTV cameras survey the scene in every single room where ever he is in the world. A gym with a Jacuzzi! What would he need this for? The one and only trained muscle on his body is his cock! A separate house on the estate for his staff: the housekeeper, the butler, the gardener, the chauffeur. A suite for his son Feliciano or better known as Felix. The en-suite bathroom with black marble. Each line carefully enhanced from the expensive and rare stones. Invisible just like in Blake’s Hotel, London South Kensington. Lady Gaga, Mickey Rourke, David Bowie love staying at this hidden secret when visiting London. They adore Anouska Hempel and her extravagantly designed hotel. And right now outside his home the press are arriving. Cameras, lights, microphones are waiting for him targeting like shotguns towards the main entrance as well as around the back. For a range of reasons he wisely decides not to show up at all. Adrenalin fires his body—bum, bum—hitting him like electro shocks. I can count his blood pressure from far away: 250 over 120, his heartbeat reaches 300 a minute!

Ludmilla’s voice on the phone: “It is urgent,” she sobs into her iPhone, a charitable present to her after a generous shopping browse for himself to the Apple toyshop. Ludmilla, his small sin of recent moments of pleasure.

“I am HIV positive,” she cries into the phone. His pulse rises. Of course, he did not use any protection—as usual. He can see himself dying—slowly. But it is not enough—not yet. It is not easy to die from fear. Not for him who is about to die, not for the one who causes the death. The murderer? Or better—shall I call myself the murderess? Well, for the one who plans his death. Should I inject small doses or just increase the ammunition? I just wait …

I had met Ludmilla in Moscow at the bar of the Imperial Hotel where she was waiting for a film director. “An important role in a movie,”—so she said. But the director did not turn up.

“This would be the end of my dream being a successful actress in Hollywood!” she whispered. “And the producer is not here, too!”

“Don’t worry, Ludmilla,” I tried to calm her already having a special script in my mind. Ludmilla is tall, slender, blond, Slavic, young, naïve. Exactly his type of prey. She was waiting for her one and only moment to shine like a diamond. We had mandarin juice and champagne. Ludmilla sparkled after the first bottle of the golden bubble that went inside her without any hesitation.

“What a coincidence! I am so happy having met you in this tragic moment of my life! And I had already paid for the role, you know. A threesome … Me, the film director and the producer.” She reveals her best kept secret. They where very well connected with Hollywood, the Pinewood Studios and everyone who has the golden script in their hands. And she believed each word they said. And the more they painted a picture of their influence, their contacts, their power and the easy going life in Beverley Hills between the studios, Nobu Matsuhita’s first sushi palace, clubs with vanilla sugar lines laid out on the bar, Tiffany’s, Cartier’s, Bulgari’s, swimming pools on roof terraces, parties with celebrities—simply the world of success—the more enthusiasm she’d put in fulfilling their dreams. She was just nineteen and ambitious. She would make it—one day—being a beautiful actress on the stage of glory! She would do anything to get there, yes, anything … So here came my idea: “Would you like to meet an influential man, Ludmilla? Someone who is well connected with Pellybay Films in Hamburg and all over the world? You only have to promise me one thing: never mention my name.”

“How exciting! No, never ever! I will never mention anything.” Ludmilla jumped up and down on the cosy velvet sofa couch where we were sitting. “You can call me Dorota. This is Polish for Dorothy. Here is my number.” I hand her a piece of paper with an Austrian mobile phone number—I used it exclusively for “action Ludmilla”.

“Thank you so much,” she beams and promises to invite me to her first Oscar Awards if this should ever happen. She likes my script. “Oh yes, Dorota, I will seduce him. I know how to do that! What’s his name again?”

“Amos, his name is Amos.”

Her smile is brighter than the sunshine on a glorious summer day.

“Tell me, how shall I do it? I do not even know him!”

“Don’t worry. I will write the scenes for you. Tomorrow I will fly back to Vienna. But I will call you, Ludmilla. Soon …” So I leave her at the bar with another half bottle of champagne …

I am Aelita. Sometimes Amos called me Aelitina or Aelitissima. Depending on his mood, on his level of intoxication, admiration, contempt or desire. I was his mistress, his lover—his love. I am the one and only mistress of his life and regardless who he beflirts, kisses, touches, screws, chases after, desires, gives presents to—I will always be the one and only mistress! I don’t mean this in a sexual way—no, rather philosophical or intellectual. I am the mother of his one and only child, our son Feliciano. Feliciano and I live in London, Belgravia, Eaton Square SW 1. Soon we will live all over the world owning houses in almost every country. And here we are: flying from London to Milano on a private jet with this kind of worry on my mind and Amos in a luxurious coffin in the cargo hold being my heavy luggage.

1 Luciano Pavarotti: CARUSO
Music & lyrics: Lucio Dalla

Soon Ludmilla called me:

“Didn’t I do well?” she asked me.

So I praised her talents and encouraged her to become an unusual actress.

Amos died of a heart attack combined with a stress induced stroke. He had just turned fifty-five. Not old but not really young. He was the kind of man who could never imagine himself dying.

“Se moio …—If I die …” His perception of death was only for anyone else but not for himself. Believing in his long life he had declared to Feliciano that he would live forever taking all kinds of vitamins each day. Just take a look at Amos’ slender body—not fat or big bellied like Felix’s friends fathers that he met every third Friday in front of the school when he came to pick up Felix. And he rewarded his dad for this by painting his fingernails fire red while he was asleep. The beauty company of this particular nail varnish would have named the colour “Killed by Fire”—right next to Sugar Daddy, Love me Tender, Viagra me!, Pussycat or Hollywood Glam. Little colourful bottles sitting in my bathroom … That’s my Feliciano!

He is very effective in torturing his father with his unusual taste, his imagination and his creativity: reduction of love, shortening time together, making him understand that he can boss his dad around in which ever way he likes. Amos would not even have held it against him, this red nail varnish application while he was asleep, if only he had the chance to figure out the embarrassing situation on time. But he didn’t. Not even when Amos fell into the swimming pool at his mother’s house on Procida island and the Kaercher—still plugged into the mains—dropped into the water straight after him was enough: the cable was strong but sadly the electro shock wasn’t …

But Feliciano succeeded with glory shaving Amos’ few hairs that remained at the back of his head proudly letting him go into a board meeting like this. Amos did only see the front of his head and his face but not the laborious ornamentation at the back. Oh yes, it took him some time until he noticed what actually had happened.

FEEELIIICIIIAAANOOOOO!

He realized immediately who had created this imaginative artwork.

Feliciano …

My mother’s scream woke me up from a deep sleep.

“Mum?”

No answer. I can hear her heart racing. I take her Blackberry out of her hand. My father did send her an email—that’s what I can see.

“He is dead,”

she stammers.

“Who is dead?”

I ask her.

“Amos, your father.”

She replies totally convinced. My mum tries to wrinkle her forehead, with limited success due to the overdose of Botox that is supposed to make her look younger.

“Mum?”

“Yes, darling.”

She says slightly absent.

“This is impossible. He just called me a minute ago. I spoke to him over the phone!”

Silence.

Her look tells me that she feels like another world just dropped crashing down right this moment in time.

The first time in my life I had ever felt another world crashing down on me was when my father let us drive through Italy in the dead of the night in front of us a wall of fog on the way from Ferrara to Parma. I was still little—very little. A truck honked our car out of the way, and from the shock, Mum and I almost rammed an Agip fuel tanker. We were cut off and forced to the right lane and only due to my mum’s brilliant driving kicking the brakes we were saved by the bale of straw the tractor lost right in front of us. And so we landed gently, pushing the straw in front of our car like a soft cloud that just dropped from the sky, rolling far and safe on a hard shoulder while the load pulled by the tractor burst into flames.

Back then I admired the firework in the cold damp winter fog. A late New Year’s present! I remember the “bang” like an explosion which sent a huge fire cloud flying over our heads. My dad tried to kill my mum and me! But I didn’t understand this at that dramatic moment on the road from Ferrara to Parma.

Every newspaper in Italy wrote about it in detail. The fire cloud and our car with the Berlin number plate I saw on television. Mum and I on TV. Of course, my father ignored the accident, the reports on the newspapers, the interviews on TV with my Mum.

Suddenly we both were in the spotlight. I wasn’t his son—legally at least—at that time. Rather an “option” for the future being kept waiting for the right moment between investments, hedge funds, helicopter flying, blackmail, corruption as well as enrichment through the exploitation of anything one can possibly think of. My young life changed instantly that late afternoon. Murder has many faces. Attempted murder, too … Back then I was just about three years old—now I am almost fourteen.

Aelita …

Amos is alive! Bellarosa is alive! I am awaking from a beautiful dream. Slowly the evil reality is overtaking me. Completely petrified I sit in my bed. I simply cannot believe it. Has this all just been a wonderful dream? A dream I called “Mistress—The Italian Way”? It was so beautiful … I freeze in moments trying to differentiate the reality: my love for Amos, my grief for him, feeling how much I hate him.

What remains in just this moment is Feliciano who is handing me a glass of water. “Mum? Are you ok?” he asks me with affectionate concern.

“Please tell me that I am in the middle of a dream.”

I ask Felix. I look at my hand, I see no blood, watch my index finger. There is no puncture, no thorns and no spindle.

“You are awake, Mum! Why should you be dreaming? We are at home in our house in London. Look outside—it’s raining!”

Suddenly I realise that this all has been a dream. The “Mistress” was a dream and I thought this all was real. Amos is alive! We—Feliciano and I—live in this ridiculous doll’s house in Barnes near Central London. This is not Eaton Square in SW1, Belgravia! No, this is Barnes! For me the proof of narrow minded middle of the road conventionality. A neighbourhood that celebrates itself on the steadily rising real estate prices, day by day. A narrow minded society and I don’t fit in and never wish to be a part of it. The postcode is SW13. No manor house in Scotland but my dogs Bonnie and Clyde are faithfully on guard at the end of my bed. No dressage trainer for me, no eventing trainer for Felix and our horses. No kibbuz in Israel and no Robin Hood of my dreams. Bang! My dream is blown away—Amos is still enjoying his aging existence called life. His life, a life he never lived. No inheritance for Feliciano, no sale of Amos’ assets in Italy—all his real estate. Also Felix did not win any award for his surfboard designs or his invention of the latest stylish elegant sporty eco car.

And Bellarosa is still alive! Was she not pushed off her yacht and drowned? I am sure: this wasn’t a film or a dream –definitely not! Or am I wrong? Yes, I am, and sadly another wish that did not come true. The dream of my one hundred years of deep slumber:

“On her fifteenth birthday the princess shall prick her finger on a spindle and fall down dead”

So the thirteenth Fairy Godmother said.

She turned around and disappeared again. Everyone who heard these words was shocked. Then the twelfth Fairy Godmother stepped forward. She was the one that had not yet bestowed her gift to the baby princess. I can hear the storyteller’s voice of my childhood who seems to speak to me from a dark empty space of the fairy tale. I take on Sleeping Beauty’s identity that suits me so well.

“Although she could not make the spell of the dreadful wish unhappen, but she could soften it.”

The storyteller of my childhood reads from the big old book of fairy tales.

“The princess should not die but fall into a deep slumber for a hundred years.”

Still puzzled it takes a while until I realize that my imagination did carry me away. My Blackberry buzzes—an email from Amos shakes me from my Sleeping Beauty slumber:

I read the response to a letter by a child psychologist with whom Amos and I recently had our first and last appointment. Amos monologuing as usual. I was bored as always. My first fiction Mistress—The Italian Way or better: my sweet revenge—of which he knows nothing yet—makes me chuckle to myself.

One suggestive comment after the other in the Mistress about him, his life, his death and his funeral—a spectacle as never seen before—not to forget his execution! The world is full of people with much less talent—skills—as my lawyer Chiara calls my creativity. Oh yes, I do have skills! And I do prove them constantly! The way I choose words—which is easy for me. I am a linguist and I use the words of desire all the way to destruction in any of the languages I know. The way I use my tongue—Amos can tell plenty about that!

“Aelitissima, you are the one who has always sucked my cock best! Nobody does it better … Magnifique!”

So he always groaned. And more: my networking skills, the art of making the right contacts. To maintain and use them; to lock them up in a little precious gem box and turn myself from “Mrs. Nice” into the unpredictable bitch. Well, this is one of my many skills, too. My creativity I showed in my first novel the Mistress became the base of many court cases. Some didn’t like it … My arrogance grew with my success in every TV show, with each press conference and all the extraordinary readings I gave. I became a brand. I am a brand: a firebrand—self-styled, created from a basic need: The need for revenge!

Lufthansa LH 2483 from London Heathrow to Munich—that’s where I am at the moment. A business appointment with the worldwide market leader in IT security. I might look after the emerging markets for one of their strategic partners. Globally and worldwide. They have the licence to print: Euros, identity cards, passports, sensitive insurance chip cards. They are the ones you ask:

“Hey, Obama, what happened? Can you make the Europeans happy again?”

And yes: this is the corporation that might have the answer: preventing attacking Angie Merkel, illegal acquisition of sensitive banking details, observing plans for terrorist attacks—they save the world in Germany and everywhere! This is Captain Kirk! Spock—please answer! Just as I do by working with them in their major secret project! Specialised in countries of corruption watching their behaviour and making sure they put their secret data into our network! Yessss, that’s what it is! Having spent time with Amos and listening carefully between blowjobs and intercourse made me become a girlie spider: My arms carefully wrapped around his gorgeous body I knit a net for my brain network! Oh yes, this is one more of my many skills. I call it applied intelligence.

Every month I will fly to Asia. Hong Kong, Singapore, Mumbai—all for the purpose of security. I will have access to the secrets of the world, secrets which could start a World War III: banks, insurance, asset management groups, hedge fund companies. I will access the most precious FBI and CIA jewels! Spying next to James Bond. I will be number 001. Above him and under him. He on top of me shagging me. And I would kill him if I have to—for my own safety. And for Feliciano! I am 001, Aelita, the number one Bond girl! Throwing pillows at Sean Connery. Crushing sheets with Pierce Brosnan. And all that at the same time … Bond girl 001 drives away in her Porsche Carrera—just like in real life. Black leather seats inside. The sunroof is slightly open like all Bond girls’ lips when they fake an orgasm. Lights switched off. Eyes closed. The sexy 911 has been built for athletic human beings! So I exchange Sean Connery for Daniel Craig. A sensual muscle play—skin touching the black leather. There is no place in the world where sex could be better than in a 911 …

My bank account fills up on a daily basis. More court cases against me for the Mistress—The Italian Way by Amos, followed by Bellarosa’s ridiculous assumption the story would include her and the Gransignore in Carozza in his red racing car whom I actually wished into jail at the end of story: Aelita, the hero, the mistress! Fighting against the mafia, ruining the Italian society with her Mistress—The Italian Way. Shouldn’t they all have better things to do these days of the never ending economic crises? The Mistress became a movie, merchandising starts and all rights are in my hands!

I despise anyone without talent …

Soon Amos and I will be sitting again in front of many shrinks with Feliciano—as usual—on Amos’ choice. Felix is so happy! But apparently Amos does not know or rather this is his response to our renewed dispute over money, the house and school for my son. The old struggle over power and control that does not seem to end. A year ago Amos insisted on dragging Feliciano to child psychologists and therapists all headed by a child psychiatrist. Amos wanted to establish scientifically that Felix is totally unhappy.

The three of us taking part in the assessment at the hospital of Dr. Alon Steinberg, the eminent Child Psychiatrist, who is greatly and happily respected by all Family Courts in the country. Dr. Marisa Paoli, his Italian child psychologist begins the assessment asking.

“Amos, would you please describe your relationship with Aelita?”

Feliciano is with us in the room slouching on the psycho couch. Amos wrinkles his forehead pulling his mouth angles down. His expression turns into an evil Walt Disney character. And like so often I can see him suffering …

“I have always admired and respected Aelita very much.”

Amos tells with admiration.

“Until she was pregnant …”

he continues.

Amos requested to let Feliciano wait outside so he may not hear what will be said in the room. I already know what comes next!

“I never had a relationship with Aelita.”

Amos goes on.

“And we never planned to have one. All of a sudden she was pregnant. How could I have known that this was my child?”

At this stage I leave the room.

“Sorry but I am not listening to this nonsense anymore!”

“And how am I supposed to carry out the assessment without you?”

“No idea—that’s not my job.”

I throw at her with an arrogant smile.

After this ridiculous assessment Amos and I receive the following report:

I learned from Feliciano’s father that his son has been sad and dissatisfied with his life for some time. He is moody and it worries him that he has even threatened to kill himself. He thinks that all this must have started Feliciano stopped coming to Italy to visit his father and his family.

“What’s this nonsense? Since when?”

I ask myself loud out while reading the report of the psych assessment. Felix is going most of the holidays to Italy: to Procida island where nonna, his grandmother, lives and to Ferrara visiting Amos. So I continue reading:

Felix’s mother tells me that the situation did improve last year. Feliciano made new friends at school and in the neighborhood. He has fun playing the drums, enjoys horse riding, likes playing chess and loves travelling to Berlin and Italy in his holidays. His Italian is getting better even though his father only speaks in Italo-English when he is with him.

Feliciano has had a psychotherapist for the past two years but does not want to go to see her anymore. That’s what he keeps telling everyone for quite some time, according to Feliciano’s mother.

“That’s turned very nicely.” I thought reading the lines on my computer. “Honestly he is sick of it! And of course he is testing how far he can go with his father and of course, with me, too.

Carrying on with the report …

At the beginning of the assessment Feliciano’s father found it unacceptable to have his son in the room while he was talking. He thought he could not speak openly about what he has to say and it would be too painful for Feliciano.

“Go on, honey …” I think giggling to myself as I read this down market newspaper story dressed up to look like a shrink report.

The father’s dificulties started with Aelita’s pregnancy. To him it was such a surprise and he felt that there was not enough time for him to get used to the idea of becoming a father. In his view Aelita did change so much. Until then she was intelligent and independent but now she was only pregnant. From the very beginning she claimed that the child was his—how could he know, he expresses again. And again he emphasises his doubts about his paternity. At this moment Aelita got up and left the room. Dr. Amos Dominante, Feliciano’s father, reports to me that Aelita was never willing to accept that he and she were not a couple. In his view Aelita was obsessed and mentally ill enough to even write a book about him.

I am amazed reading these lines, shake my head laughing whilst going through this report. How on earth did he get such ideas? Delusions of grandeur from a little man with erectile dysfunction!

Amos also reported that Aelita tried to kill herself in front of her son—that’s what it says in the psych report I am reading here. When asked to clarify, the father only replied that he would be unable to elaborate this issue due to legal reasons. He accused Aelita of having told her lawyers that he, Amos has beaten and sexually abused Feliciano and he does not want to comment further on this. He refers to his lawyers and does not want to provide any further explanation towards the accusations he just dropped. Strangely enough the father goes on to paint a picture of Feliciano that describes him as an intelligent strongly willed boy who has a clear perceptive mind.

Basically the conclusion is that Feliciano does not have an Asperger’s syndrome and is not autistic but it could not be excluded totally. Didn’t we know this before? A bill of a few thousand pounds follows the report which will be paid by Amos generously with his usual nonchalance, the way he settles all bills as long as they are not coming from me! A blink after having receiving the shrink report an email arrives from Amos:

Dear Aelita

Please believe what I am telling you here: I have never mentioned to anyone that you ever implied I would have beaten Feliciano or even of having abused him sexually. I have already instructed my solicitors to ask the psychologists to take this part out of the report. These psychologists are useless! Talking to them was pointless right from the beginning. I swear I have never said anything like this! You have to believe me, Aelita. My lawyers will make sure that the psychiatrist takes out this part and I will sue him if he doesn’t do as I want.

Ciao, take care

Amos

And in another blink of an eye the carefully elaborated shrink report has been changed into Amos’ wishful words! What does that mean? Did Amos suggest that I insinuated that he has beaten Felix or abused him? Or who did? Dr. Paoli changes the report as he expected and his lawyers told her to do. Now I am asking myself has she actually invented this? What if he didn’t say it? Stay calm, Aelita, stay calm … Don’t get into any fight yet. Amos’ name is mentioned first in this email—me second. Bad behaviour, Dr. Paoli. I just ignore it. With Amos’ consent I forward the original assessment report to Felix’s school. Everyone is stunned about the insinuation they have to read.

“You should not show this report to any future school you would Felix like to attend—never—under no circumstances! If anyone reads of these conflicts between the parents no school would ever offer him a place!”

With no doubt I will remember this statement. And immediately it comes to my mind how to make good use of this precious psych report in the future …

Feliciano …

Every time I go to Italy Amos’ family stuff me successfully with food. Panettone, pasta, pizza, tortellini, cannelloni, lasagne.

Why does the child not eat? Does he not like it? “Ti preparo qualcos’altro!” screams the “Fata Morgana”—my nonna, which means grandmother in Italian. Nonna, that’s how I’m supposed to call her according to Amos, my dad.

“No, I don’t wanna eat anything else! I’m full! Yes, I like it!” I try to convince them all whilst I am terrorised by the idea that they will force me to eat more.

Eating is a big deal in Italy. On Procida island where my nonna lives it is actually a bit easier for me to survive the holidays than in Ferrara where I am completely at my dad’s mercy. In his modern style palazzo with its own underground parking for his constantly changing luxury limousines, classic cars and motorbikes—the rarest the world has ever seen from all the epochs you can imagine—bathrooms with heated toilet seats automatically pre-warmed to your butt’s favorite temperature. Of course, his staff are under constant observation by my dad thanks to the latest version of CCTV cameras which allow him to monitor them from wherever he is in the world and to collect evidence for eventual conviction—he tries to get control over me, too. With little success of course because I am a child or better I just turned into a teenager.

At my dad’s I have my own housekeeper who only has to look after my shirts. And I don’t even wear “white collar” shirts—no, my t-shirts are Superdry: unironable—just like me! I managed to turn the toilet seat temperature in my father’s bathroom to the hottest degree without being caught by his butler or one of his housekeepers. Every morning he sits straight up in his bed with a butler’s tray on his lap wearing his silk dressing gown and with outstretched pinkie partakes an espresso, followed by a plain yogurt, no fruit. “Lo zucchero fa male.”

So he always remarks meaning “sugar is bad.” I have a totally different view, of course. My favorite foods and drinks are muesli crumbs with yogurt and maple syrup followed by Haribo and all types of chocolate bars, Orangina, Almdudler, Coca Cola and Seven Up.

My father has a particular problem with Coca Cola: he doesn’t allow me to drink Coke at all but at the same time he talks about Warren Buffett as is he were a hero. My dad’s expressed goal is to be celebrated by the media as the Italian Warren Buffett. He admires him because he acquired NetJets—a boy’s dream toy Warren Buffett bought to play with airplanes whenever he wants to. And bingo: My dad set up a private jet charter business in Italy. You can still see him being interviewed with a bright Berlusconi grin on his face talking about the future of private jets and the incredibly high luxury tax on rich men’s toys in Italy.

He, the president of the private aviation company in Italy, shaking hands with Tony Blair, the Fiats, Ferraris, Benettons and courting favor with the Italian packaging market leader, his Bellarosa, the one I am not allowed to meet ever in my life since I’m the one who caused her so much pain.

With her my dad got so many umpteen millions which went into his accounts around the globe. He tried to prepare me for my future role since I was very little and he seriously believes that I haven’t noticed! He wants me to step in his footsteps! Me taking over his empire—the control base of Starship Enterprise. Slowly … not yet and only under his control and his command. I am a renegade! Now and forever!

When my dad comes to London he always drags me into his 5-star-superior plus plus L—standing for luxury—life. We stay in the Athenaeum Hotel on Piccadilly, Mayfair. This is supposed to be “contact” between him and me according to psychs and courts. When I don’t feel like staying with him or don’t obey as he tries to force me. His rules like sitting in a restaurant at 1.00 am sharp—his lunchtime is set in stone otherwise he would collapse—he would call my mum to allow him to bring me back home due to my misbehavior. What a wimp he is!

He cannot cope with anything! Usually this is the moment where I start acting like a lunatic: jumping out of the car in massive traffic, run away from him, answer back the way I learned from TV, don’t listen at all, call him names—I mean seriously bad names and refuse to eat. Then my mum won’t give him the permission he seeks as she knows the game in and out. Usually she would laugh at him and put the phone down. That would be the end of communication between the two of them. What he cannot imagine is that she has a life herself which I am in and he never would be. So basically the few times he is out with me and I do my very best to annoy him she would like to be left in peace. Later there will be an email—minimum two pages long—describing my psychologically disturbed behavior at the last contact—this is a shortened version:

Cara Aelita

I would like to let you know how disturbed Feliciano behaved during the last contact weekend with me. I am totally worried about his psychological health. When I picked him up from school he did not want to come with me as it has happened so often before. And when I finally convinced him and we took a taxi he started to tell me that he wanted to go home because he wants to meet his friends. Having asked him but he wouldn’t answer at all. Finally we arrived the Athenaeum Hotel and checked in. In the meantime we had picked up a rented car and on the way to the hotel we stopped to have lunch. He had decided to go to a Chinese restaurant. So I persuaded him to have Italian food. You know how sensitive I am to food and my stomach would not cope with anything like that. I cannot have Chinese food. So we went to an Italian place. Felix refused to order and ignores me.

Instead of communication with me in a father-son way he asks my why I have so much money and so many properties. How come that his mum and he do not have a big villa? He asks about my butler, my housekeepers, my gardeners and why I fly business class or charter private jets while he and his mum fly economy. I told him that he can fly on private jets when he is with me. And this is a matter of fact, Aelita, and only when he is with me! Full stop. That should have explained the question about my lifestyle enough for him. He is only a child! Then he insisted that I tell him where all my money comes from.

Believe me, Aelita, Felix is disturbed! He is growing up with you, not with me. I give up seeing him now. I cannot bear having this kind of contact with him again if he doesn’t change. When I called you everything got worse. I cannot deal with this. We urgently need to consult the psychologists again. Felix needs help. What have you done? Did you contact them? A new psychologist has been recommended to us. Have you been in touch with him? When can we go and see him? I will not wait any longer—if you are unable getting an appointment with him I will do it. We have had his details for a long time.

I expect you to reply to me immediately.

Grazie,

Ciao

Amos

Then I urgently have to go to see one of the many shrinks again. They will force me to do another assessment to find out that I am just a pre-puberty teenager and my father will be satisfied having taken over control as always and pay gazillion pounds to the psychs while he is unable to provide proper financial support for me and my mum.

I’ve been asking myself for a long time how has he so much money: he hardly works, only goes to meetings sometimes even on the biggest yachts I ever could imagine or has lunches or dinners in posh restaurants. Recently I flew with him from Milano to Naples on a private jet. Just for lunch—wow—how cool was that! The food was rubbish—my mum cooks better than some apparently authentic restaurants in Italy. Even my nonna lives in an enormous villa on Procida island facing the sea and mount Vesuvius. She also has a butler and her own chauffeur as well as housekeepers. The indoor pool is full of radioactive water to help nonna’s fragile bones to heal specially pumped up by a pipeline from the distant island of Ischia right into the whirlpool decorated with the golden cherubs.

At the age of ten I had to sit with her in the contaminated water just to please her having me close to her, apparently ignorant of the fact that radioactive water is supposed to be miraculously healthy for adults but it can stop kid’s growth. And I am very worried about this as my father is not exactly tall. I always see a certain similarity between him and Lord Farquaad in “Shrek”—and it is because of him that I am not the tallest in my class. But luckily I inherited all the very best from my beautiful tall mum’s genes.

When I was on a school trip my friend Massum overheard a conversation in the girl’s tent:

“I think Felix is the coolest boy.”

Marianne exclaimed rapturously.

“All the other girls agreed! Can you imagine?” Massum told us all. And I felt like a hero … Now I was not only a hero in the girl’s tent but also here my pals admired my success with the young ladies. Proud and overjoyed I totally loved this school trip to Italy where I was the only one that did shine and sparkle with Italian language skills. Not even our teachers managed to order a coffee without linguistic stumbling blocks!

“Un caffee per favore”—that’s not too hard, is it? And what a surprise when they get an espresso and not a washing-water-thin americano in a huge coffee mug like in England! Thanks mum, that I know this all!

But now I am back to my nonna in her tacky flat in the outskirts of Ferrara. Often Italians can be really uncool! One thinks it’s all about design in their minds but no, it isn’t! Look at this furniture! Still kept from the old days of fascism of Mussolini also mistaken as communism in Italy, particularly in Emilia Romagna where they all are at home: the fascism, the communism and my dad. Italy is a country that doesn’t know communism at all which actually is amazing as they are neighbours to former communist countries. I often ask myself:

Is that purely ignorance? Or do they just not know?

When I ask Amos about it he only replies that Berlusconi is a capitalist. So this must be the enemy of the communist, right? And then I ask him: “And what about you?”

I always get the same answer: None. My dad wants the Gransignore in Carozza to be the chancellor of Italy. They are best buddy-buddies, my dad and the Gransignore. At a lunch on Capri island my dad presented me to the “owl” like I was his personal property:

“Mio figlio,”

he proudly presented me with a swollen chest.

Being my mother’s son I did not add a thing to it. Amos got all the applause for me: as usual I got praised for my excellent behavior, my bellezza, my intelligenza! Everything I owe to my mum! Nobody at this business lunch, the politicians, the president of the Formula 1, shoe and fashion entrepreneurs and whoever else was there: chocolate moguls, cigarette smugglers—Mafiosi—that’s what I name my dad’s “holding” that he keeps going on about—and the owner of the island’s palatial hotel who dresses in white, he always follows me to the loo and tries to get a look at my penis when I pee, no, none of them ever mention my mum. Neither do their betrayed wives with their studied botox-paralized hyaleron smiles. I am here right now with only one goal: To take over the power of his entire empire!

When I go to see my “Italian family” I fly by myself to Italy; my mum isn’t even allowed anywhere near nonna’s villa on Procida island or close to my dad’s modern style manor house in Ferrara as she is not a part of “the family”—so my father says. And Morgana, his mother, says it too. I have often asked myself how my dad and my nonna can afford their lifestyle: Nonna was a housekeeper. But of course she didn’t work for very long. And even I know that a cleaner doesn’t earn a fortune.

On one of my flights from Naples back home to London I met a really nice man who sat next to me on the plane. His name is Roberto and on the few hours flight I told him the story about my family in Italy. Everything I cannot understand about the money, the influential friends my dad has on the island who I have to call “uncle”, the ones who run the Formula 1, the shoe manufacturer with the gummi bears stuck to the shoe’s heels, those lunches and parties on the island. And the one who always grabs my butt even when my father is around. My father realises this all and keeps quiet even when the butt-wiggling “zio” all dressed in white from top to toe with his golden necklaces, a Breitling around his wrist and the sissy loafers with those gum bears on the heels, watches me changing my clothes. Some of them arrive by helicopter from their yacht’s own heliport!

“My dad owns a helicopter, too and he flies it himself,” I tell Roberto.

“He has a PPL—a Private Pilot Licence. I call it the licence to kill.”

I whisper secretly into Roberto’s ear.

I love James Bond!

“Ho capito.”

He understands and nods. Roberto listened carefully to what I told him and asked me endless questions.

“I’m glad we’ve met.”

“Me too, Roberto. Do you want my telephone number?”

“Sure!” he replies.

So I gave him my number. Roberto is a journalist who is under police protection. There actually where men on board who where watching us anxiously all the time. But they weren’t wearing police uniform. I am well informed about these things. My mum watches CSI Miami, Criminal Minds or Tatort when we are in Germany. Every Sunday at eight fifteen.

“Believe me, Felix, I know Naples very well and also the islands. It is really dangerous what’s going on there. I have written a few books about it.”

Roberto tells me.

“About what?” I ask him.

“About the other Mafia, the Camorra.”

He whispers into my ear.

“You’re kidding!” I yell across the plane.

“My mum has written a book, too. A novel, totally fiction but based on her own research. It’s called “Mistress—The Italian Way”. Do you know it? I can get you a copy personally signed for you by my mum of course! And by me. I had the cover idea” Gun’s n’ Roses. And a sexy photo of my mamma when she was just seventeen. I would have like more guns and less roses on the cover but it’s ok anyway. Actually the whole thing was a dream that she suddenly woke up from. It was a nightmare and then there was a happy end. But it was just a dream. Now the book is an international bestseller translated in many languages. As I said—it’s called “Mistress—The Italian Way”. You have to read it!”

“Why are you so sad, Feliciano?”

Roberto suddenly asks me. So I start telling Roberto all about my almost fourteen years of life including the attempted murder of mum and me.

“I remember the accident!” Roberto says. “The fire, the burning bales of straw on the motorway, the fire brigade, the interviews on TV with the mother and the child.”

“Yes, that’s my mum and me!”

I’m speaking faster and faster—almost like a real Italian. Roberto speaks Napolitano. I know it well because my “famiglia” on Procida island can’t speak anything else than this dialect. Roberto knows many languages—just like me. I speak German and English and Italian. We have a lot of fun Roberto and I.

“Feliciano, be careful and look after yourself! I’ll give you my telephone number but you must promise me that you won’t give it to anyone except your mamma, ok? Can you do that?”

“Sure I can. I know how to keep a secret.”

I promise knowingly.

“Roberto, so when will I see you again?”

I ask.

“Call me Rob. I’ll be in touch with you, Felix.”

“Fantastic!”

We put the iPads in our backpacks and drape the Beats around our necks.

“Are you on Facebook?” I ask him.

“Of course.” He gives me his website, his Facebook page, his skype address and a green mint chewing gum.

“Thanks Rob.”

I say. We strike a high five in the air and our palms meet with a loud clap of friendship.

That was a brilliant flight as opposed to the previous one where my dad shipped me like a cargo—unpacked and without an airway bill and even without paying attention to regulations how to “import” children under sixteen into the UK. It went like this:

Instead of me being accompanied by one of those beautiful long-legged female air hostess he checked me in by myself. Not even my mum was aware of this. He only told her in a text message after the flight to London took off. Of course this happened in Napoli, again where always something goes wrong or arrives late or something bad tends to happen.

Anyway, queueing at the check-in there was a guy with a kid also flying to London and Amos asked him if he would mind looking after me, too. So when we arrived at London Gatwick we went to the passport control where they stopped us straight away. They treated us like criminals: Christiano, the kid, his dad Francesco and me. Thank God I had my mum’s phone number on my iPhone. At border control the immigration chap called my mum immediately and asked her lots of questions. They almost refused to let me enter the United Kingdom and to see my mum just because Amos was so stupid to send me off by myself without booking me in as an accompanied child as usual. And this all was his office’s fault because he doesn’t book the flights himself of course.

What a relief when I finally saw my mum! Yes, they did let us in—finally—all three of us: Christiano, Francesco and me. Francesco is a great guy—not some narrow-minded suit and tie white-collar, no, Francesco is really cool! He has a long ponytail and his body covered by tattoos. It was a hot August day, the end of my summer holidays, and I could admire the entire picture book that decorated his arms, his neck and lower legs.

“Sono un artista—l’ho creato io. Sono I miei disegni su mio corpo!”

he explains proudly. He designed all the tattoos himself! This looks like a surfboard but it really is so much cooler on his skin! My mum was so happy when I flew into her arms and I finally could enjoy her warm hug. If she would have sent me to Napoli with some tattooed super cool dude like Francesco I am sure my father would have dragged her into Family Court for breach of parental responsibility or neglecting me or something else nasty that would have come to his or his lawyers mind!

Aelita …

I am hopping on one leg down these narrow stairs of our London doll’s house in Barnes, Southwest London. Autsch, this hurts! I try to step on my other foot but—no—I can’t. I have just fallen down on the three steps between the first and the upper first floor carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses in my hands. No, there wasn’t too much champagne of the extraordinary vintage fluid in me: rather it was on me. His sperm intermingled perfectly with the excellent Bollinger! A delicious mixture. Sticky … tasty …

The crystal glass in my hand shattered into thousands of diamond shiny jewels stitching in my foot like thorns, capturring a blood red glimmer of light in the darkness of the night. The glass is red as is my blood because my name is Aelita and not Sophie, Katharina, Victoria or some other attempt towards blue blooded aristocracy. The colour of my blood ranges from zinober to burgundy red depending on the occasion and bloody occasions seem to occur quite frequently in my life.

I love the colourful crystal and it’s stunning look when it breaks or when the source of the delicious bubbling spirit of my life called champagne takes a bath in it. My blood running down on me just missing the main artery but this only because I am holding my injured wrist close to my neck. I can’t help it—that’s how I fell down those three steps in the opaque dark of the night unable to see where I step without contact lenses in my beautiful blue eyes carrying the glasses and the bottle of vintage champagne.

My lover that night is Emanuele and as usual I am lucky because he is a surgeon and will look after my injuries professionally and lick my wounds.

“Sei proprio stata fortunate, piccola!” You have been very lucky, my little one, he tries to cheer me up. With sensual passion he looks into my eyes. An act of soul that does not suit a surgeon.

I can see the scalpel in his hand—oh yes! He was lucky, too, and privileged having had an orgasm inside me and on top of me. But the major luck was the sequence of events: first the love of desire and satisfaction—then me falling on the stairs!

Some time ago, I remember my friend Siegfried telling me a story: “You have been so lucky, Aelita!” Emanuele admonishes me while I laugh about my blind fall in the dark.

“A girlfriend of mine did fall with a glass in her hand. But this story was not funny at all, Aelita. The pieces of broken glass cut her artery and the wound wouldn’t stop bleeding. I called the ambulance. She went into hospital and had emergency surgery immediately. It was terrible! Especially because she then was admitted to the secure unit of the psychiatric ward for six weeks!”

“What?” I ask appalled hardly able to hold back my laughter.

“Yes, because they assumed that it might not have been accident but she might have tried to kill herself.”

“But you said you where there with her when it happened, right?” I am stunned.

“Sure, and I also confirmed that this was an accident. But they kept her in the psychiatric ward for six weeks just to be on the safe side.” So he states knowingly.

“Now I am rather glad that I injured my foot in a way that the blood didn’t squirt out of some of the standard suicide veins!”

Thoughtfully I add: “Six weeks in the loony bin? This would never fit into my lifestyle …”

“And another of my girlfriends who came from suburbia to the big city Cologne wanted to go to a very posh party. She bought a pair of high heel Jimmy Choo stilettos and crossed the Wallrafplatz. Her heel got stuck in the tram track. Tragic, I tell you, really tragic!” Pause.

“She only just got her foot out of the red golden ankle strap sandal before the tram could catch her and almost drove over her! Terrible, really terrible!”

Siggi continues with another horror story. “Thank God, nothing happened to her but when the ambulance and the police came she was admitted to the secure unit of the psychiatric ward.” Siegfried the hero of great legends says.

“Of course for six weeks I imagine?” I joke.

“Yes, exactly, for six weeks. Because of suicide risk.”

“And I suppose the Jimmy Choo Swarowski stiletto was totally wrecked, right?” I ask but don’t get a reply.

We lost the connection. Sometimes skype is