Chapter 8 Damiano
DAMIANO
The room might be silent, but blood rushes and sings in my ears. I’ve never been so focused, so completely present in a moment.
Not for twenty-one years.
Twenty-one years I’ve waited for this moment. Twenty-one years of rage crystallized into a single victory.
The Clemenza stands his ground as I approach.
Objectively, he’s a nice-looking thing—the slender frame, the bright hair, the way his shoulders rise and fall as his breathing quickens.
He doesn’t need all that gold shit they put on him, or the makeup, either.
I tower over him, and he has to tilt his head back to keep eye contact.
But looking down into that stubborn face—Christ, he looks so much like his father—I find myself entranced by those honey-gold eyes again.
He stares back, trying to be brave. He doesn’t understand—not yet—but he will. And I want to revel in this moment, the moment I won. I reach out and wrap my hand around his golden throat. He just looks at me with those haunting eyes.
I flex my fingers slightly. “You’re mine now, golden boy.” Those eyes drop at last, and I have to kill a triumphant smirk.
When I pull my hand away, the print of it remains wrapped around his throat, an absence in the gold dust marking my first claim on him. I turn to the crowd and hold up my hand, showing them my gilded palm.
“Mine,” I announce.
None of them speak. They understand now that I’m willing to pay any price to have this prize. The ten million I’ve paid is nothing compared to the debt I’m collecting.
There’s just one problem…but I won’t worry about it now. I’ll stay in this half-crazed joy tonight and worry about the rest of the world tomorrow.
In silence, the crowd starts to disperse. The most powerful people in this city, used to taking what they want, surrender to my claim. Whoever it was who tipped me off tonight, I owe them.
I got an anonymous text a half hour ago, suggesting I get to the Obelisk fast. I almost ignored it. But Fate is finally on my side.
I turn back to Caligula Clemenza, whose eyes have risen again. “Who—” he begins.
I put a finger over his lips to silence him. His mouth feels soft under my touch. When I take my hand away, the golden print of my finger stays stamped across his lips like a seal. What would it feel like to break that seal? Drive deep into that sweet mouth…
But that’s not why I bought him.
“Get this cleaned up,” I tell King. “Now.”
Daniel King steps closer instead of hurrying to obey. “One year,” he says quietly, so that not even the Clemenza can hear him. “No permanent physical injuries or scars. And he is returned alive, Orsini. Those are the terms.”
I give a scoff of laughter. “Right.”
“Come with me to settle the account.” He turns to Jesse Foster, who’s lurking in the wings of the stage like the rat he is.
King snaps his fingers at him. “Jesse. Take the merchandise to be prepared, then escort it to the private garage.” King glances back at me, professional despite the dislike evident in the set of his mouth.
“Regarding the ornamentation—it’s yours, of course, but if you’d prefer we remove it—”
“Leave it,” I cut him off. “Get moving,” I tell Foster.
“Yes, sir.” Foster, at least, knows his place, jumping to obey.
The idea of keeping Caligula Clemenza plugged and caged until I choose to release him gives me another thrill of pleasure. I want him to feel the humiliation of being trussed up like that.
To begin to understand what it means to be powerless.
King beckons to me. “This way, Mr. Orsini.”
I follow him through dark hallways to his office, where he gestures for me to sit not at the desk, but on a small leather couch in the corner.
“Bourbon is your drink, I believe?” he asks, already reaching for a crystal decanter.
“Neat.”
He pours it out into a heavy-bottomed glass and brings it to me. “May I congratulate you on your purchase?”
“What you can do is get this process moving so I can take my purchase home.”
He inclines his head. “Jesse will hurry things along, I’m sure. But these things take time, Mr. Orsini. We will, of course, take all due care in the preparation of your merchandise. In the meantime, we’ll deal with the financial aspects.”
I’ve been staring at my bourbon, paler than the kind I prefer. It’s almost the color of the Clemenza’s eyes. But my head snaps up at King’s words. “I’m good for the money.”
“Of course, Mr. Orsini. Of course. But you must understand, we have a duty of care at the Obelisk. If someone who was contemplating using our services became aware that the contracts and agreements protecting them had been…compromised,” he says carefully, “then they might be scared off. I cannot allow that to happen.”
“I don’t give a shit about that. I bought the Clemenza—for an extortionate fucking price, in case you forgot—and I plan to make good use of my new property.” I swallow down my drink and set the glass down on the coffee table. “What I do, how I do it, is none of your goddamn business.”
The balls on this fucker, to pretend to give a shit about the down-and-outs who sell themselves here at the Obelisk. I’ve never come to one of these auctions before because I knew what they were—modern slavery, prettied up with pretenses of consent.
But no one sells themselves at the Obelisk if they have any other choice.
Which tells me a few things about the Clemenza.
King’s face has hardened. “No one forced you to make such an outrageous bid, Mr. Orsini.” I say nothing to that, just let him sit and stew.
“One year,” he says at last, sliding the contract across the coffee table and flipping through the pages to point out the clauses.
“No permanent physical disfigurement or harm. He is returned to the Obelisk alive and well at the end of that year.”
I have to force myself to focus, because so many delicious scenes are flashing through my mind. Because the contract isn’t a problem. There are a thousand ways to hurt someone without even touching them.
And when the little Clemenza prince sees what I have in store for him…
No. The problem isn’t the contract. The problem is much more difficult. But nothing on earth could make me let the Clemenza go now.
King is still watching me. “If you can’t agree to these terms—”
I snatch the platinum-plated pen from his hand, yank the contract toward me, and scrawl my signature with enough force to nearly tear the paper. “There,” I tell him, throwing the pen down again. “Now, who do I make out the check to?”
“We require payment via electronic funds transfer to a holding account,” he counters, unruffled by my display. “And we couldn’t possibly allow Mr. Clemenza to leave the premises without that money in trust.” He produces a card with the details of the account.
I pull out my phone and make a call to my accountant. “Transfer ten million to this account. Now.” I relay the numbers, then tell King to check his balance.
He moves to his desk at last, opening a slimline laptop and tapping a few keys. After what feels like an eternity, he gives a reluctant nod. “It seems everything is in order.”
I stand. “I’ll wait by my car.”
He glides over, blocking my path subtly. “Mr. Orsini, I want to be very clear. If something happens to that young man while he is in your possession—well, I wouldn’t want to have to take the matter to a higher power, if you understand my meaning.”
For a split second, I feel the old panic of being thirteen again and realizing everything of value can get taken away from you in an instant, just bleed out while you sit there, useless.
And then I want to break Daniel King’s jaw.
He knows exactly what my problem is, this motherfucker, and he’s stupid enough to try to use it against me. But I’m too close now to lose control.
“You were not the only bidder tonight, after all,” he goes on. “There are many other people in this city who would pay a great deal to have power over the last Clemenza heir. You might want to consider that in your dealings with the boy.”
King is one of those very people. I can see frustration in his eyes.
“He’s not a boy,” I grind out. But I’m not about to risk King calling the whole thing off, not when victory is so close. “One year. No permanent physical harm or disfigurement. I return him alive. I understand the terms.”
He nods slowly, disbelief written clear in his eyes. But what can he do? The money has changed hands.
The deal is done.
But I’m not so easily rid of Daniel King. He escorts me down to the underground parking garage, where my driver, Vito, is waiting with the car. I jerk my head at him when he gets out to open the door for me, and he disappears back into the driver’s seat.
The less he sees, the better.
I pace up and down, checking my watch every thirty seconds. “How much longer?” I snap after five minutes of waiting.
“You’re welcome to wait in my office—” King begins.
“Call them and tell them to bring him down. Now.”
I catch the sigh from King as he turns to pick up the discreet phone beside the elevator. He speaks in low tones, then turns back to me. “Very soon now, Mr. Orsini.”
Another five minutes of pacing, each passing moment feeding the dark anticipation building inside me. I’ve been patient for twenty-one years, but these last few minutes are excruciating.
At last, the elevator chimes softly, and the doors slide open. Jesse Foster emerges first, holding a delicate golden chain in his fist that goes taut as he moves forward.
“Come on,” he hisses over his shoulder.
Caligula Clemenza steps out of the elevator.
I inhale slowly as I look him over. His face is still painted up with all that makeup, eyes rimmed in black and gold, cheekbones dusted with shimmer.
He wears a gold satin cloak draped over his shoulders, but it falls open in front, leaving his body on display.
The gold dust has been cleaned from his skin, revealing tan perfection beneath.
He’s a little on the skinny side, but that’s how I like my men.