Chapter 2
CALIGULA
If I’m going to have any chance at this last play, I need to get behind a velvet rope. Which means I need to look the part. And right now my clothes stink of mildew and desperation-sweat.
So I head to Bergdorf Goodman, charge a new outfit to Uncle Tony’s company account, and take great pleasure in signing my name ostentatiously on the bill.
Stuccio will pay. He won’t like it, will make sure I can never do it again, but he’ll pay, if only to keep things quiet. And I want “Uncle Tony” to see that he can’t sever that Clemenza connection as easily as he’d like, even if he rolls over for the Feds.
While I wait for my new purchases to be tailored to old measurements, I slip into the bathroom and try to nap in one of the stalls, which is about as glamorous as it sounds. But I need a clear head, because tonight really is my last shot.
If it doesn’t work, I might as well cut my own throat instead of waiting for that Giuliano to do it.
The line at Kismet snakes down the block, stylish twenty-somethings huddled against the cold, their outfits more suited for Instagram than insulation.
It’s the most popular gay club in Manhattan, so my target should be here tonight.
But I stop dead at the corner when I catch my reflection in a darkened window.
Who is that?
Thin cheeks. Too-long hair. The new clothes were tailored, but I’ve lost weight since last time I shopped there, and I couldn’t risk letting them take new measurements.
So my outfit hangs a little too loose, hinting at the frame I used to fill out.
I look like a ghost wearing a living person’s wardrobe.
But the blood of emperors doesn’t thin easily, even when the empire has fallen. I tell myself that my sunken cheeks just make my high cheekbones look sharper, more mature. I comb my fingers through my hair, mess it around on purpose. There—now it suggests “bed head” instead of “vagrant.”
The Tom Ford herringbone coat I picked out today does most of the heavy lifting as far as image goes.
Underneath: black jeans, a black button-down, Hugo Boss boots.
I spent a limited time enjoying New York’s nightlife a few years back, but I still remember the unspoken dress code.
Black is best, and appearance always matters, especially when you’re faking everything else.
Instead of joining the line, I stroll directly to the head of it, where a slim, well-dressed man with sandy hair stands with an electronic tablet, flanked by security. His eyes sweep over me before I even reach him.
I don’t speak when I approach. Don’t name-drop. Don’t even ask if he’ll let me in. I just make eye contact and wait for him to speak first.
If you have to ask to get in, you’ve already lost.
“Hey,” he says.
That’s my in. “Hey. Looks like a long wait.”
“Sure is.” He studies me for another beat, then taps something on his tablet. “Going to be a packed night.”
It’s not a rejection. I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t take up much space.”
“You with…friends?”
The way he says that word—friends—that tells me he’s clocked who I am. Reminds me what a terrible idea this is. “It’s just me,” I assure him.
He touches his earpiece, listens for a beat, and then nods to security. The gold velvet rope is unclipped and a chorus of groans starts up from the line behind me.
“Coat check’s mandatory,” he says as I step through.
“Sure thing,” I lie. There is no way in hell I’m surrendering this coat. Not after I went through all that effort to get it. Besides, it’s now the only heavy coat I own, and things have taken a turn for the wintry in New York—not just metaphorically. I can’t chance losing it.
And whoever was talking into the ear of that door guy, they recognized me.
So I slip past the coat check while they’re busy and head straight for the metal detectors that stand at the inner doors. I’m actually relieved to see the security measures, because it means most of the people in Kismet won’t be armed.
Except the Morellis, of course. And they’re my top suspect for who’s picking off my flesh and blood.
Kismet is owned and run by Finch D’Amato, husband of Luca D’Amato: the Morelli Family Boss, Capo dei Capi, and the man who murdered my grandfather.
I’m in enemy territory, the last place I should be showing my face.
But I have no other options. Tonight is a Hail Mary pass.
I head deeper in and inhale the stifling air heavy with lust, sweat, and expensive alcohol.
The sunken dance floor is moving to a slinky, seductive beat that feels hypnotic.
The bars on both sides are three-deep with beautiful people, and above us all looms a mezzanine balcony where I assume Finch D’Amato holds court.
I glance up. Is that his silhouette up there near the railings? Is he looking down at me?
Doesn’t matter. The man I need won’t be up there.
I keep my head down and make my way over to the select seating area. And there he is, just as I knew he’d be: Jesse Foster, gossiping and crowd-watching with a group of gorgeous friends, though he, of course, is fairest of them all.
Jesse has dark hair, sun-kissed skin, and big blue eyes the color of the Mediterranean.
He’s the kind of guy who spends a lot of time saying “I didn’t mean it that way” when he absolutely did.
I met him a few years ago when I was dipping my toes into the gay scene, terrified but exhilarated.
Jesse, already an old hand at nineteen, took me under his wing.
I watched him transform from bitchy, scrawny hustler to bitchy, beautiful lapdog over the course of six months.
He’s still living the high life from what I can see—bottle service in this section starts at a thousand dollars.
Now I need to pray he remembers me before some Morelli-wannabe catches sight of me and tries to make their bones tonight.
I make my way closer and closer until he notices me.
His eyes go wide, his cheeks cave in as he sucks hard on his straw, and then he slams the cocktail down right at the edge of the table, making one of his minions grab onto it before it spills into their lap.
He leaps up from his seat, waving his arms in the air, and screams my goddamn name for the whole club to hear. “Caligula fucking Clemenza! Omigod, I haven’t seen you for so fucking long, you little bitch, get over here!”
I started clubbing right after my father died, galvanized by a spirit of seizing the day and all that shit.
I quit a few months later when Luca D’Amato took over the Morellis.
Partly it was because I could see my grandfather was determined to have it out with the guy, and I didn’t want to end up as collateral damage in a mob war.
And partly it was because I lost my nerve.
I knew what would happen to me if anyone in my Family found out I was queer.
So I haven’t been to Kismet before, but I knew it was where Jesse would be. He loves to be seen, and Kismet is where you go to be seen.
I hurry over to him so he’ll stop shouting, and suffer his jumping-up-and-down hug before he shoves one of his friends off the sofa and pulls me down to sit next to him.
“Where the hell have you been?” he shrieks.
“I thought you were dead. I saw the news about your cousin. It’s all over the socials! ”
I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out, because all I can see is Louie. Blood and brains and those amber eyes, same as mine, staring and blank.
Jesse takes a closer look at me, then turns to the rest of the group and says, “You all need to fuck off.” A chorus of complaints goes up. “Jesus Christ,” Jesse breaks in. “I can’t believe I even hang out with you fucking losers, you’re so embarrassing, get the hell away from me—”
The guys leave, more than one with a flip of the middle finger, and Jesse laughs. “These Kismet queers are fucking awful,” he says fondly, and then takes my hand. “I’ve missed you bad, honey. Here, give me your phone so I can take your new number. Last time I tried to text you it wasn’t connected.”
Trying to play along, I fumble out my burner phone and let him use it to text himself. “Now,” he says, pouring out a glass of champagne from the bottle on ice in the middle of the table, “how are you doing?” Those big blue eyes fix on mine. “Really?”
I pick up the glass and drain it. I don’t know Jesse Foster all that well, except to know that on top of being bitchy, he’s generous.
He used to pick up the tab all the time, and he always had the best coke—or so everyone said.
I never partook. And since Jesse is the first person in a long time to show a genuine interest in how I’m doing, and since I’m not used to drinking and the champagne is already going to my head, I find myself doing something stupid.
Telling the truth.
“…and so I wanted to talk to you,” I finish up, having given him a sanitized version of my current nightmare.
Jesse’s manicured fingertips have tightened around his glass. “Me? God, Cal, I’m sorry about everything, and I’d love to help, but…” He spreads his hands in a what can I possibly do? gesture, diamond bracelets sparkling even in the low lights of the club.
“I just need some cash to get out of the city. Or a place to sleep for a few nights.” Somewhere that isn’t a park bench or under a bridge.
Jesse bites his lip, his eyes darting around the club. “Fuck,” he says softly. “Look, Cal, I really like you, but—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say automatically, rising to go. Never show weakness. I should have remembered that. “I’ll figure it out.”
He grabs my wrist and yanks me back onto the sofa. “I really like you,” he repeats firmly, “which is why I’m gonna tell you this. But you can’t tell anyone. Understand? Especially not in here. So can you keep a secret?”
“I can keep a secret,” I confirm, choking back a chuckle of hysteria.
Secrecy has been my constant companion since birth—secrecy about my sexuality, about my Family, about the bodies and the blood and the infinite traumas.
“But,” I go on cautiously, “I don’t want to know anything that can get me in more trouble than I’m already in. ”
Because I know a little something else about Jesse.
I know he likes dangerous men. That’s why he imprinted so hard on me, for the thrill of my last name and the idea that he might meet one of my more infamous cousins.
It’s also one of the reasons I knew he’d be here at Kismet tonight, soaking up the intoxicating stink of money and power and violence.
As Jesse settles back, the sleeve of his Versace shirt rides up, revealing a ring of mottled purple bruises around his wrist. He sees me looking and doesn’t try to hide it. In fact, he smirks, tilting his other wrist to show me a matching set of marks under the diamonds.
A strange jolt hits my stomach—revulsion, but it’s mixed with something hot and dark that slithers down my spine just like that Giuliano’s voice did.
I think about the marks he left on me.
I think about how I keep thinking about them.
“It’s not dangerous to know about,” Jesse hedges, voice dropping even as the music swells around us. “It’s just—I’d help you if I could, I totally would, but I don’t have any money of my own. I’m, uh. I’m owned.”
“Owed?” I ask, sure I’ve misheard.
“Owned,” he repeats, emphasizing that little “n” that changes the entire meaning of the sentence.
While I take that in, he pours me a fresh glass of champagne. My throat feels dry, so I take a big gulp and then ask, “What do you mean? You have a sugar daddy, or something?”
He gives that nervous look around again. “Or something.”
He doesn’t want to chance the Morellis hearing about this, that much is clear. “But you…you’ve always covered everyone’s costs, so I thought—”
“He’s paying,” he corrects me quickly, words tumbling out now. “It’s all on his dime. Whatever I want to drink, eat, wear. Anything I want.”
“But—”
“He even lets me buy whatever I want for my friends at a place like this. He just likes to...” He shrugs. “Keep tabs on me.”
The implications are crawling through my mind. “Wait—he owns you? Like property?”
Jesse grins. “Well, yeah. He’s my owner, Cal. That’s the point.” My blank face must read as an invitation, because he goes on eagerly, “So that’s one way I could help you. I could set you up in a mutually beneficial relationship—”
“Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “I’m not looking to sell my ass.” It must be the alcohol talking, because under other circumstances, I would have chosen my words much more carefully. Jesse’s expression turns cool. “Wait—sorry, I—”
“Fuck you.” He dips his fingers into someone’s abandoned martini and flicks them in my face.
Gin and vermouth, right in the eyes. I deserve it.
And then he laughs as I stammer out another apology.
“Listen, Cal, it’s really not like you think.
It’s just a kink. I like having him in control.
It’s sexy as fuck, knowing I can have anything I want in the whole world—but as soon as he calls, I go running.
And he’s hot, Cal. So hot. I’d suck his dick for free.
Getting paid for it, being owned, that just makes it more fun.
Plus I get to live like this.” He gestures at the table, the champagne, the club, everything.
My mouth stays dry no matter how much champagne I swallow down, and my heart is clanging in my ribcage.
Sweat beads along my hairline despite the club’s aggressive air conditioning.
The idea is repulsive—being owned, controlled, used.
Part of me is screaming no, absolutely not, this is degrading and dangerous and you are a Clemenza and Clemenzas do not kneel.
But another part is imagining what it would feel like to surrender. To stop running, stop fighting, stop performing. To let someone else make the decisions. Someone who can scare off would-be attackers with a glance, someone with big, rough hands and a voice that makes my spine melt…
“Where did you even meet this guy?” I ask hoarsely.
Jesse leans in. “That’s the secret part,” he whispers hot against my cheek. “I met him at the Obelisk.”