Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FINA
My obsession with Lorenzo Beneventi is pathetic.
I blame the renewed spark on the old Fina. The years spent tracking him, the adrenaline rush in watching him thumb his nose at the Eleven and do whatever crazy-ass things he liked, the bolder the better. Nothing ever worried him. His behavior enthralled me.
Until I ended up on the receiving end of his loyal-to-none philosophy.
He abandoned me. Fortunately, I wasn’t stupid enough to rely on him completely and had an escape mapped out. The only issue with my plan had been money.
God, I’m sorry, okay? I had no choice.
If you want to damn someone, damn Renzo.
And that strawberry for sparking my temper.
How dare he play with me like nothing happened. How dare he walk into my restaurant, eat the food my great-aunt made with love, and toss out questions about some blonde who doesn’t exist.
It’s my day off. I should be anywhere but here, trailing him through Rome’s most iconic spots like some obsessed tourist.
But here I am. Trailing after a man I never truly knew. Craving answers and revenge, yet too disgusted to actually confront him and his excuses.
He’s led me on an aimless tour of Rome, ducking in and out of shops and trattorias, slipping through crowds near the Colosseum, weaving through ancient ruins like a man with no clear destination.
I follow, always steps behind.
We stopped for espresso, gelato, and a Supplì stuffed with mozzarella—where, each time, I mirror his order, then relish each treat.
We visited the Forum, the Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain.
I almost lost him at the Spanish Steps when a few flirty locals distracted me with whistles and bold compliments.
The lack of logic in the path he’s carving through Rome is astounding. No pattern to his madness. Yet much to my annoyance, with each passing hour my curiosity grows.
We end up at the Santa Maria della Vittoria, and I discover him at the foot of Bernini’s sculpture, Ecstasy of Saint Teresa. Quietly, I creep forward, partially concealed by the sheer scarf around my neck and a few other visitors.
I study him as he regards the statue, and note the changes in him.
Gone is the fragile frame and in its place muscles.
Massive, mouthwatering muscles, the kind you want to squeeze to test if they’re real.
His hollow cheeks are now filled in, and there’s a healthy glow to his skin.
My eyes rake over him, head to toe. He looks very different from the last time I saw him in LA.
What’s the same is his dangerously erotic vibe.
He’s staring at the nun like he understands her. The reverence and ruin. Bliss sharpened by a raw ache.
I stare at him, trying to understand him. A hopeless task, isn’t it? I think.
He should be up there instead of Saint Teresa. Shirt unbuttoned, chest bronzed and glimmering in the soft cathedral light, his expression echoing the statue’s aching hunger.
Admired but never to be touched.
It hurts to look too long at him, and I want to touch him. Slap him again. Grab him by the collar and shout, “What happened? Why disappoint me like that?”
So many unanswered questions. Did he follow me to Rome? Did he leave that damn strawberry as some twisted joke?
I drag my eyes away.
Fuck you, Renzo Beneventi.
Comforted by a familiar rage, I force myself to look away, anywhere but at him.
Then God reminds me my penance isn’t over, and I spot the artist’s name beneath the statue.
Gian Lorenzo Bernini.
Of course the asshole’s named for an artist who immortalized agony and ecstasy, something this man practically bleeds.
I tell myself to walk away. Leave him to his aimless wandering, let him disappear into the city just like he vanished when I needed him most.
But I don’t. Pathetic as can be, I trail behind him as we exit the basilica.
RENZO
She hasn’t changed.
I was wondering if she’d take the bait and confront me about that fucking berry, among other things.
Still relentless.
Still so fucking beautiful the cheek she didn’t slap aches.
Joining Dante for dinner and clueing her in that I recognized her was a bad idea.
It’s better she remain under the illusion I completely abandoned her.
Dark days are behind both of us. Why stir up shit?
And if my father discovers she’s in Rome, whether it’s my doing or not, I’m not just cooked but deep-fried.
But when I caught sight of her lingering by the club, fucking waiting for me, I couldn’t help myself.
We played a game of hide-and-seek for most of the day.
Every city block, every step of the way, I made sure she found me. We practically locked eyes in Santa Maria della Vittoria. Did she really think I wouldn’t recognize her hiding beneath that scarf?
But standing at the nun’s feet, staring up at that little bastard angel looming over her and ready to pierce her heart, it hit home. Fina holds the arrow and has already driven it into my chest.
And hell knows, I love a little pain mixed with pleasure.
Fina’s always understood my kinks. Craves a taste of that world herself.
I had a vision, while we stood at Saint Teresa’s feet, of forcing Fina onto the cold marble floor and worshiping her with my mouth until her ecstasy rivaled the nun’s.
Fuck the audience. They wanted to see a woman in the throes of an orgasm?
Fina would come so hard, she’d forget every promise I shattered.
A throat clears behind me, and my attention snaps to my office door.
Dante stands there, watching in silence.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“No one expects you to be an angel, you know.”
Is Dante a goddamn mindreader now? “Yeah, an angel who’d jab a spear through your heart.”
“No booze. No drugs. Are you even getting laid?”
I toss the phone I was scrolling through onto the desk. “You sound like my therapist.”
He chuckles. “Your therapist wants you to get laid?”
I smirk, letting him draw his own conclusions. But the truth is, since that visit, sex has been me and my fist. I, a man with an anything-goes mentality and voracious appetites, have relegated himself to good, old-fashioned jerk-offs.
Now how the fuck did that happen?
“Maybe I used the wrong choice of words,” he continues, crossing the room to take a seat. “An angel doesn’t saw heads off men.”
“You, of all people, should know, “ I murmur, “light can kill just as fast as darkness.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
“Did you want something besides the pleasure of my company?” I ask.
Dante grows serious. “Yeah. Can you add or extend surveillance on our warehouses, particularly those near the port? Some fuckhead set fire to a lucrative weapons shipment.”
I stare at him thoughtfully. “That makes no sense. Why torch arms when you can steal them and sell them on the black market?”
“Don’t know. And after the example you just set, who would dare pull a stunt like this?”
“Right.”
“Got to be a family in the Cosa Nostra. Makes sense considering how the violence is escalating.”
“Right again,” I add. “I’ll need to expand my team and order additional equipment.”
“Do it.” He stands. “Your father said to give you whatever you need.” With that, he straightens his suit and stalks to the door. But he turns my way, with one more thing to add.
“Our capo di tutti capi also wants men on you. You know, since things here are amping up.”
He leaves the room—and me—wondering if I, the goddamn king of players, just got played at my own game.