Chapter 8 Damiano #2
He’s not my man. I incinerate that thought as soon as it enters my brain.
He’s my property. And that’s signified by the golden cage he still wears between his legs. But from the end of it, a thin gold chain spans from it into Foster’s hand, as though he has any claims here.
“Give that to me,” I snarl.
Foster gives a deferential bow. “Here you are, sir,” he says cheerfully, handing over the end of the golden leash.
I take it, wrapping the cold chain around my knuckles. The Clemenza is watching me with guarded eyes.
“One more thing, sir.” Foster reaches into his jacket and withdraws a small ornate box of black lacquer with subtle gold inlay of an obelisk. He presents it to me with both hands, like an offering. “The key.”
I grab the box impatiently and shove it into my pocket, then open the back door of the car and gesture at my new property to get in.
The Clemenza doesn’t move. He’s staring straight ahead now, his posture rigid, chin lifted in a futile attempt at dignity. As though if he doesn’t acknowledge me, none of this is happening.
And I want him to feel every second of his new reality.
I give a tug on the chain and he gasps. His hands fly instinctively to his groin, but he catches himself, forcing them back to his sides.
“In,” I tell him, pointing to the vehicle. “There.” I indicate the backward-facing seat, wanting him positioned where I can watch him, study him, enjoy his fear.
He steps forward quickly. Guess he learned his lesson. He climbs awkwardly into the back of the car, trying to pull the cloak around himself as he takes the seat I directed him to.
I toss the chain onto the floor of the car, where it lands with a melodic tinkle. It’s a symbol, a fragile thing that could be severed easily enough. But over the next year, the chains I’ll put him in will be unbreakable.
“Be seeing you,” I tell King, who gives a clipped nod and doesn’t offer his hand. Foster follows him back to the elevator.
“No permanent physical harm or disfigurement,” King reminds me. “You return him alive in one year.”
I wait for the doors to close on him before I snort softly, then get into the car.
The Clemenza has pressed himself against the far door, as far from me as the confines of the car allow.
His head is down, gaze fixed on the floor, hands clutching the cloak around his body like it can protect him somehow.
I say nothing at first. I just watch him, drinking him in.
The car glides forward. Only when we’ve emerged onto street level, the city flowing past the dark windows, do I allow myself to fully relax.
It’s real. He’s here.
He’s mine.
I study him in the shifting shadows, watch the streetlights illuminate him in flashes—the curve of a cheekbone, the full lower lip, the bronze-gold hair.
“Look at me,” I say.
The only response is a brief bunching of his eyebrows, quickly smoothed over. He doesn’t look up.
I lean forward, reducing the space between us. “When I give you an order, you obey.” I reach out and grasp his chin, forcing his face toward mine. “Look. At. Me.”
Those golden eyes finally meet mine, filled with speculation and a hint of fear that makes them almost gleam in the darkness. And there’s something else, too. A spark of defiance that revs up my motor just right.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask, still holding his face.
“You’ve been following me.” His voice is surprisingly steady. “And you—you protected me from that guy who was after me in the subway.”
Protected him? Sweet that he thinks that. And naive. “And what else?”
“You’re a Giuliano,” he says, eyes dropping to my hand. “High up, based on how everyone reacts to you—and based on how much you spent back there. A senior Capo. Or…” His eyes travel over me, taking in my chest, my arms. “Enforcer,” he says with finality.
So he’s observant. Clever. But his mind won’t save him now.
“What else am I?” I go on. He shrugs. I slide my hand from his chin to his throat, feeling his pulse racing beneath my palm again.
It’s almost addictive. “I’m your goddamn savior,” I tell him.
“And I’m not just talking about that fucker who was following you.
I’m talking about tonight. You got any idea who parties at the Obelisk?
I’m just about the best of them, and that ain’t saying much. ”
There’s that defiance again, as he lifts his chin. “Then this must be fate,” he says coolly.
I’ll enjoy stripping him of that sarcastic shield. “My thoughts exactly. I’m Damiano Orsini.”
He gives a slightly sardonic, “Nice to meet you.” No other reaction at all.
“Your father killed mine,” I go on, so casually that it takes a moment for my meaning to hit him.
Confusion, followed by understanding…then a flash of stark terror that he tries to hide.
“It was twenty-one years ago. I was thirteen,” I tell him, staring him down.
“Thirteen years old when I found my father with his throat slit, bleeding out on our kitchen floor, and Cesario Clemenza standing over him with the knife.” The memory blazes through my mind again despite myself.
Blood spreading across tiles, my father’s eyes finding mine, his lips moving in a final warning I couldn’t hear.
“I didn’t—” he starts to protest.
I tighten my hand, cutting off his words. “You’re his son. Close enough. And now you belong to me.”
“For one year,” he croaks. “And you can’t kill me.”
He’s trying to be brave. Cute. “One year,” I agree. “Do you know what I can do to you in one year, golden boy?”
He tries to pull away, but I grip him harder.
“Everything,” I promise. “I plan to do everything to you. Break you in ways that will never show. Remake you. Own you.” I release his throat at last to slide my hand into his hair, gripping the silky strands. “By the time I’m done with you, you won’t even remember your own name.”
A small, shuddery sigh escapes him. It strikes something deep inside me, something in the back of my brain, like the perfect harmony to some forgotten tune. I jerk my hand away from him.
What the fuck was that?
It’s just physical attraction. Basic biology. The Clemenza is too pretty for his own good, and I haven’t touched anyone in months. Of course my body responds.
It wasn’t anything more than that.