Chapter 19
DAMIANO
Lorenzo Benedetti arrives that afternoon armed with the weapons of his trade: measuring tape, fabric swatches, and the supreme confidence of a man who’s dressed billionaires with more money than taste for four decades.
“Mr. Orsini.” He gives a respectful bow as Rosa shows him into the great room. “You said this was urgent?”
“Yeah. I need a tux. For tomorrow night.”
Benedetti’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Tomorrow night? But sir, you must understand, custom tailoring takes time—”
“Then I guess you’ll have to work through the night.
Money is no object. And it’s not for me,” I add as he begins to approach me with his measuring tape.
I already have one tux from Benedetti. I don’t need another.
“It’s for a guest. You get ready while I bring him up.
Rosa will bring you anything you might need. ”
“As you wish, Mr. Orsini.” His eyes gleam with the greed of a craftsman who’s just been told to spare no expense, but there’s curiosity there too. I don’t think his clients typically have guests who require emergency formal wear.
When I descend to the basement, the Clemenza looks up from the bed where he’s been reading that newspaper for the hundredth time. His hair is still a little damp from his shower, but at least he’s washed himself after what happened earlier.
He’s been behaving himself, ate his lunch when it was sent down, took his vitamins. But there’s still the little matter of using my property without permission.
We’ll deal with that later.
“You have an appointment,” I tell him as I unlock his collar.
He stretches out his neck and gives me a sideways glance. “Appointment?”
“Upstairs.”
The wary look in his eyes appears again. I toss him the plain white terry robe I brought down. “Put this on.”
“Nothing else?”
I smile. “Well. Almost nothing.” I pull the golden cock cage from my pocket and watch his face flush as understanding dawns. “Unless you’d prefer to stay down here?”
He lets me put it on him without further complaint, staring glassily at the wall. I take the cage in one hand and him in the other, soft and warm and growing slightly in my palm as I stand there trying to figure out this stupid device.
I have to be careful. It’s in the contract, after all. No permanent physical damage. So I take my time. I slide the cage into place, adjusting him into it with my fingers, because I want to make sure it sits right, that's all. I'm being considerate, which is more than he fucking deserves.
At last it’s on. And once he’s wrapped up in the robe with his golden secret hidden underneath, he gives me a look as haughty as a prince dressed for court.
But that cage is a reminder of his captivity, of who owns his body.
Of who owns him.
When we get up to the great room, Benedetti has arranged his tools and is humming to himself softly. He looks up as we enter, but shows no surprise, just the careful neutrality of a tailor who’s dressed enough powerful men to know when not to ask questions.
But then the Clemenza steps forward, and everything changes.
“Lorenzo,” he says, and his voice is warm. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
The tailor’s expression morphs into genuine respect, the kind that can’t be bought or faked.
“Signor Clemenza!” Benedetti’s bow is much deeper than the one he gave to me. “It’s been far too long. You look…” His eyes take in the drawn face, the slight frame. “Very well,” he finishes, not even blinking at the lie.
“I’m getting there,” the Clemenza says.
I wasn’t expecting this easy familiarity between them, but of course they would know each other. Caligula Clemenza will have been fitted by the city’s most exclusive tailor since he was old enough to wear a suit.
“The new tuxedo is for you?” Benedetti asks eagerly.
The Clemenza glances at me, and I give a stiff nod. He smiles. “The new tuxedo is for me.”
“Ah!” Benedetti is clearly delighted. “Maria and I have your measurements on record, of course, but…”
“Yes, I’ve lost a little weight,” Caligula agrees. “Better take some new ones.”
Benedetti picks up his measuring tape. “Shall we begin?”
The casual ignoring of my presence, the way they talk around me like I’m hired help in my own house, is an insult.
“Strip,” I order the Clemenza, cutting through their friendly chatter.
Benedetti’s expression remains perfectly still, and as for the little prince, his smile doesn’t falter. “Of course,” he says smoothly. “Lorenzo, I hope you’ll forgive the informality. My generous host has some specific requirements.”
The way he says it—like I’m some eccentric billionaire with strange hobbies rather than the man who owns his body—makes anger bubble in my veins. I take a breath and remind myself that after Benedetti leaves, I’ll have all the time in the world to take out my irritation on the Clemenza.
He shrugs off the robe and Benedetti’s eyes widen slightly. Not at the nudity; the man has seen enough of it to be immune to flesh. He’s surprised by the golden cage locked around the Clemenza’s cock.
But the tailor recovers instantly. “Naturally, Mr. Orsini prefers things to be a certain way,” he says with a respectful smile to the Clemenza. “For a man is king in his own home.” He approaches. “Shall we start with shoulders?”
The acceptance, the way Benedetti just incorporates this new information into his professional routine, is somehow more infuriating than shock would have been.
And as for Caligula Clemenza, he stands perfectly still as Benedetti works, chin up, shoulders back.
When the tailor measures his neck, he tilts his head exactly right.
When the tape circles his waist, he adjusts his stance without being asked.
And they talk.
Christ, how they talk.
“How is Maria?” Caligula asks as Benedetti works. “Still terrorizing the apprentices?”
“Worse than ever. She would want me to give you her regards, by the way. She still hangs on to that bolt of Harris tweed you admired.”
“The gray? It was divine.”
I take in every touch, every casual familiarity, every reminder that they share a world I bought and fought my way into but will never truly inhabit.
When Benedetti runs the tape up the Clemenza’s inseam—fingers brushing dangerously close to the golden cage—my grip on the arm of my chair turns white-knuckled.
Mine, the beast in me snarls. Other hands don’t belong there.
But what pisses me off the most isn’t the intimate touching. It’s the respect in Benedetti’s voice. The way he automatically treats the Clemenza as his social better, despite the fact that the kid is a third of his age and standing there naked with a golden cage on his dick.
And the Clemenza prince enjoys that world of bespoke tailoring and careful courtesy like he never left it. He belongs there.
Meanwhile, I’m just a barbarian with a credit card.
“Bellissimo,” Benedetti murmurs, stepping back to admire his muse. “That posture—perfect. You can always tell good breeding.”
Good breeding. I’m going to fucking lose it.
“Your grandmother would be proud,” Benedetti adds softly. “You have her carriage.”
Caligula’s smile falters for just a moment. “Thank you. Thank you very much, Lorenzo.”
The genuine emotion in that exchange, the shared history, the kindness offered and accepted—it makes something ugly twist in my chest. The Clemenza was supposed to be humiliated by this, not find some connection to his old world.
“The fabric,” I say curtly, to kill the moment. “Show me the options.”
For the first time, I get out of my seat as Benedetti lays out the swatches with ceremonial care on the sofa: midnight blacks and navy blues, each one labeled with details I don’t understand—mills and weights and thread counts that mean nothing to me, but everything to the two of them.
He’s separated out the tuxedo fabrics from the others, but the Clemenza’s attention is immediately caught by one particular sample off to the side. Even I can see it’s different from the other samples. Special. Black, but not dead black.
“This must be Dormeuil,” he says softly, fingertips tracing the fabric. “Surely not their Vanquish II?”
Benedetti beams. “We were fortunate to secure one of the final lengths released—enough for a single suit. Two hundred and fifty grams. Midnight blue, so that it photographs far more richly than black. I had another client consider it recently for his husband…” He hesitates, just long enough.
“But he has not committed. So I would be pleased to offer it to you instead, Signor Clemenza.”
“Then there’s no question. I must have that,” he says casually—and then catches himself, mouth snapping shut as he finally remembers his place.
His eyes slide to me, wondering if I noticed.
“You were saying?” I prompt him.
“Nothing at all. I’m just the dress-up doll, right? My opinion doesn’t matter.” He laughs as he says it, and Benedetti laughs as well.
As though it’s a joke.
Benedetti turns to me expectantly. “The choice is yours, Mr. Orsini.”
Smooth bastard. I pick up the sample. Imagine it lying over the Clemenza’s body, soft and supple.
“It’s not traditional,” I hedge, because I’ve just seen the tiny price tag on the back of the sample. “I’ve never seen a tux made out of something like this.”
“It is true, the Vanquish II is more delicate than the heavier cloths usually chosen for formal wear. It drapes beautifully, but it will show wear sooner.” Benedetti pauses. “And of course, it is a very premium product.”
Meaning that it’s too good for the likes of me. “Use it,” I bite out.
The tailor packs up his tools, but before he leaves, he turns to the Clemenza one last time. “It was truly a pleasure seeing you again, Signor Clemenza,” he says, and he fucking means it. He turns to me and gives a slight nod of the head. “Mr. Orsini.”
The little prince’s smile is radiant despite his nakedness, despite the cage, despite everything. “Thank you for your time, Lorenzo. I’ve enjoyed myself very much.”
After Benedetti leaves with a promise of miracles, the Clemenza leans over to take up the robe once more.
I reach over to snatch it away from him. “You won’t need that. It’s back to the basement for you.”
He just gives an elegant shrug and walks ahead of me to the elevator, still naked, still caged, still carrying himself like royalty even in defeat. I feel my desire and my hatred for him crystallizing into something beautifully vicious.
Caligula Clemenza is desperately in need of correction.
And I am going to take pleasure in providing it.