Chapter 16
DAMIANO
Three days later, the morning headlines make me smile as I read the newspaper that Rosa set out with my breakfast.
Infamous Clemenza Townhouse Continues to Auction Despite Tragic Suicide.
I refold the paper with a crisp snap and set it beside my espresso cup with a happy heart. Fate has been showering me with her favor lately, and this has to be the cherry on top.
Rosa clears her throat softly from the doorway, her hands clasped tightly around a tray of food. She knows better than to interrupt my mornings unless she has something interesting to say.
“Well?”
“The tray came back full last night.” Her voice carries that particular tone—the one she uses when she wants me to know she’s not happy. “Same with breakfast this morning.” She holds out the tray for me to see. I give a satisfied nod. Everything’s lining up.
It’s time.
Three days I’ve left him down there alone.
For three days, Rosa has been sending down three meals a day in the dumbwaiter on my cue. Wherever I am in the city, I take out my phone and open the video feed to watch Caligula Clemenza’s reaction as I slide up the lights from off to dim, enough for him to see the food when it’s sent down.
Then I send him back into darkness.
No human contact. Not even a voice. Nothing but the darkness and the bones of his grandfather’s empire. The Clemenza prince is learning that privilege dies hard, but it does die.
“I’ll take something down to him myself,” I say, rising from the mahogany table. “Can’t have our guest wasting away.”
Rosa just purses those lips, but she hands over the tray without comment.
I’ve been watching him on the cameras. More than I should. More than is strictly necessary—but then, I need to monitor my investment. Make sure he doesn’t find some way to harm himself and rob me of my revenge. That’s the only reason I check the cameras dozens of times a day.
And I watch him shower. After his breakfast each morning, I turn on the shower from my controls, leave it on until he reluctantly gets under the water and cleans himself. I watch the water running over him, the graceful line of his spine as he tilts his head under the spray.
Then I plunge him back into darkness, amusing myself sometimes by cutting the lights before he’s reached for the towel, so that he has to grope his way around to find it.
He has become…a distraction. A sweet distraction.
So today I want him to learn that it’s not going to be all darkness and solitude while he’s here.
Sometimes I’ll make him hurt.
The elevator descends and the doors slide open, revealing a void beyond. I stay where I am, standing in the threshold so he can tense up, get scared.
Then I take a step in and turn on the lights.
The illumination isn’t blinding by any standards, but I’m pleased to see the Clemenza flinch instinctively, his whole body jerking like he’s been struck. One hand flies up to shield his eyes, and the other braces against the mattress as though he’s preparing to run.
Christ, he’s really pretty.
Even like this—especially like this. Sharp cheekbones, those impossible, wide-set golden eyes, the defiant tilt to his chin.
He’s a mess. Tangled hair, three days of fine golden stubble softening the angle of his jaw, making him look younger. More fragile. But even like this, there’s something untouchable about him. A regal air that three days of darkness hasn’t dimmed…
Enough. He’s a tool for vengeance, and that’s all he is.
I step into the room and let the elevator doors shut behind me, sealing us in together. “Good morning, golden boy.”
The Clemenza doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me. Just keeps one hand over his eyes like a child playing hide-and-seek, as if blocking out the light might make this all disappear.
The vulnerability in his gesture brings an unwelcome memory. My father’s body. His blood, everywhere. I threw my hands over my face when I found Cesario Clemenza standing over him in the kitchen, as though if I couldn’t see the blood, it wouldn’t be real.
My anger returns, that welcome, cold fire of vengeance that I should be feeling every time I look at Caligula Clemenza. He might react like a child, but he isn’t one. He’s not innocent, either.
He’s a grown man, and he’s a Clemenza, and he deserves what’s coming to him.
I walk over and set the tray down on the end of his bed. “You will eat when your meals appear.”
He says nothing.
“Eat,” I say, settling onto the mattress beside him. “Or you’ll regret it.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge that I’ve spoken.
He needs to learn.
I reach out and wrap my fingers around the front of his collar. His whole body goes rigid at the contact. His skin is warm under my knuckles, and I can see the fluttering pulse in his throat.
“I said eat.” I pull his face up toward mine. “Or I’ll feed you myself, and you won’t enjoy it.”
His lips stay sealed, and I’m close enough to see flecks of gold shining in his amber eyes, close enough to smell his skin. For one insane moment, I want to kiss him. Want to cover that smartass mouth with mine and taste him.
Then he yanks away from me and grabs the fork, shoveling eggs in like he’s starving.
“Good boy.”
His eyes narrow with anger at the words, but soon enough he’ll crave my praise rather than my punishment. He’ll see that he’s dependent on me. Dependent on me for everything, down to his next breath.
I like that thought. I like it very much.
I stretch out across the end of the bed, leaning on one elbow as I watch him, making myself comfortable.
Making it clear that I’m not going anywhere until I’m satisfied with his performance.
The position puts me close enough to touch, and I have to actively resist the urge to smooth his tangled hair.
The urge to play with my toy.
“I’ve been catching up on current events,” I say, watching him chew. “Guess what made the front page?”
He stops mid-bite, fork halfway to his mouth, as he looks at the paper I lay out next to the tray. The headline stares up at him in bold black letters.
He puts down his fork and picks up the paper, reading through the story.
“Guess they gave the green light for the sale to continue, since that townhouse is the only thing left that your worthless grandfather owned,” I say with a yawn.
“Asset forfeiture is a real bitch, huh? Of course, it’s a pity about your cousin’s ‘suicide.’” I add the air quotes.
“Guess they got cleaners in to mop up all that blood before the sale.”
His head jerks back as though I’ve struck him.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say with fake concern. “Were you close?”
“You’re an asshole.” His voice is raw from disuse.
I arch a brow, encouraging him to continue. To dig his own grave deeper. “Were you fond of him?”
He says nothing.
“I asked you a question.”
“He was Family. That’s all that mattered.”
And now he’s just another piece swept from the board. “Touching. Especially since he would have cut your throat himself if he knew you were queer.”
He doesn’t answer, but his teeth clench. His gaze drops back to the newspaper, to the photo of the townhouse where he grew up, where he learned what it meant to be Clemenza royalty. Where he thought he’d always belong.
“Are you going to buy it?” he asks quietly.
The question catches me off guard. “Why would I buy it?”
“You’re a collector. You’ve collected everything else.” There’s no accusation in his voice, just weary acceptance. “The furniture. The paintings. The china. Why not the Clemenza townhouse, too?”
“What do I need with the townhouse?” I grin at him. “I’ve got a real live Clemenza of my very own now. The centerpiece of my collection. The crown fucking jewel.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react at all except for the slight quickening of his breath that I see in the movement of his chest. Then he asks, “What if I bought it?”
I’ll give him this: he’s never predictable. “You have no money.”
“I have your money. The money in trust from the auction,” he continues, words coming faster now, desperate. “The ten million. Couldn’t I…” He trails off.
I tilt my head. “Why do you want it so bad?”
“Because…” His voice breaks slightly. “Because it’s the last thing left. Everything else is gone, like we never existed. But that place…” He swallows hard.
And I have to force myself to stay right where I am. To not reach out and push his hair back from his forehead.
“It’s the last connection I have,” he finishes quietly. “To the person I used to be. To what I was.”
There’s something raw in his voice. This isn’t manipulation or strategy, not like the last time I was down here with him. This is genuine pain, genuine loss, the kind of grief that hollows a man out from the inside. The kind of grief I understand from personal experience.
And it pisses me off.
I don’t want his pain to matter. I don’t want his losses to be anything more than justice served cold. I sure as hell don’t want this twisting in my chest that feels suspiciously like sympathy.
I get off the bed abruptly, putting distance between us.
“A property like that won’t go cheap,” I tell him.
“Even with a scandal attached. If anything, that’ll make it more interesting to buyers.
So you don’t have the money, little prince.
Not even if you paid out every penny of that ten million.
You done?” I finish, pointing at the barely-touched breakfast.
He nods his head without looking up.
“I could make you eat it. Could force every bit of it down your throat.”
“I know,” he says tiredly. “But I’m not hungry.”
I study him—this broken prince in my basement, this last scion of a dynasty, with nothing left but his memories.
Something about him is different today. Dimmer.
The fire that made him so magnetic at the auction—that defiant spark that made a whole room want to pay for the privilege of tearing him apart—seems to be flickering out.
That’s the point, of course. I want to extinguish that light. That’s what revenge means.
I didn’t mean it to happen this fast, though.
I should’ve realized he’s no tough guy. He survived on the streets thanks to his Clemenza cunning, but I shouldn’t have expected resilience from someone who grew up rich and pampered.
I need to get out of here. I have other things to do today that don’t involve waiting hand and fucking foot on a man I consider my property.
His gaze travels slowly up my body until he’s looking me in the eye again. He seems cautious. Careful. Like he has something to say.
“What is it now?” I ask impatiently.
“Is there…” He licks his lips in what I assume is a nervous habit, because it lacks even his usual clumsy attempt at seduction. “Is there something I could do? To earn it?”
He sold himself at the Obelisk, so I’m not sure why I’m surprised he’s whoring himself out for real estate now. It’s a confirmation of everything I’ve ever believed about the Clemenzas. No honor. No pride. No self-respect.
But even as I think those vicious thoughts, I can’t bring myself to believe them. Not really. This is just desperation, a man grasping for the last piece of himself before it disappears forever.
“What are you proposing?” I ask at last.
Those golden eyes are full of resignation. “Whatever you want.”
Whatever I want. I almost laugh. “I own you,” I tell him. “I can already do whatever I want.”
“Then I could…” He thinks, then gives a helpless shake of the head.
With a scoff, I head toward the elevator.
“Please,” he calls after me. “Please, Dami.”
I turn at the elevator doors, unable to ignore the plaintive note in his voice…or the soft way he says that nickname he gave me.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” I hear myself telling him, “if you’re a good boy and finish every meal between now and then. But you’ll have to come up with something. A proposal. Hell, it could be fun, hearing what you think you could possibly offer me.”
I reach for the light controls, intending to plunge him back into darkness, but my hand hovers over the switch. He looks pale. Fragile. I dim the lights to a warm amber glow instead—the same color as his eyes. It softens the room, makes his skin look less washed out.
As the elevator doors close on the basement, I see the gears turning in that clever head, trying to decide what he can give me that I haven’t already taken.
I almost pity him.
Almost.