Chapter 21
DAMIANO
The completed tux is delivered the next afternoon, and I send it down to the basement in the dumbwaiter along with shoes, shirt, cufflinks, and everything else required to transform my prisoner back into a prince.
I’m tempted to watch him getting ready, but I don’t.
I’ve left him alone again since his punishment, unwilling to let him become even more of a distraction.
But when I finally go down to collect the Clemenza for the evening, I wish I’d given myself a preview, because I freeze. Just for a second. Because…damn.
He’s sitting in his grandfather’s study, the first time he’s been able to reach the reconstructed rooms since he’s been down here, settled on the leather couch like he never left it.
He looks bored and irritated, as if he’s been kept waiting for a car.
He stands only when I start walking toward him, shrugging the satin-lapelled jacket into place with a movement so unconscious that it has to be muscle memory.
Gone is the desperate fugitive. Gone is the arrogant, gold-covered statue who raised his own auction price by insulting bidders. Gone, too, is the hostage I spanked into spilling yesterday.
In his place stands an attractive young man who might catch my eye in any other circumstances.
He’s in his element, standing there in the memory of his Family’s empire.
The tuxedo skims his body, Benedetti’s craftsmanship evident in every line.
The bronze-gold hair is tamed, combed back from his angular face.
And those Clemenza eyes gleam yellow as a jungle cat’s.
“You’re staring,” he says flatly.
“You look…expensive,” I reply, because every other word that went through my head was the wrong one.
“I am expensive. You established that yourself at the auction.” The words might be spiteful, but there’s dignity in his voice again.
Pride. He knows how good he looks, and he’s not going to apologize for it.
“So, am I being auctioned off again tonight, or hung off your arm like a designer accessory?”
I cross to him quickly, but he doesn’t back away this time. I catch his chin between my fingers and tip his face up. “Since you ask, I’ll be showing you off. Tonight, everyone will see what belongs to me.”
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.
And I’m not sure which one of us has the upper hand right now. Time to fix that. “Open your pants.”
His hand drifts down slowly, but he does it, opens them up and stands there motionless as I pull out his junk. Only it’s not junk, is it? Not on Caligula Clemenza. Not the word to use for a pricey little fuck like him.
I take the cage off and tuck him back in. “Tonight you need to act like a free man,” I tell him. “That’s my order. Make sure you follow it.”
“Where are we going?” is all he asks.
The Metropolitan Opera House is not my favorite place to be in this city. I’m not an opera fan. Neither is Big Gee, but I’m following his orders, proving to New York that Caligula Clemenza is alive and well, proving that I’m still a loyal Giuliano.
Proving that everything’s real fucking rosy.
Vito drives us over in the dark-windowed town car, the Clemenza sitting next to me in the back and staring resolutely at the view the whole time.
When we pull up, Vito lets me out first, and then I turn and offer my hand to Caligula Clemenza, pulling him out into the flash of cameras and the sharp eyes of the city.
And the moment he steps out of the car, I see the shift again.
His shoulders square, his hand is firm in mine, and his smile is effortless. Charming.
He’s at home here.
It's opening night for the season's run of The Magic Flute. Important people are going to be here: the Boss of every major Family, plus their entourages. And aside from them, a bunch of worthless socialites are here too. When we enter the foyer, heads turn. Whispers follow.
“Is that Caligula Clemenza?”
“I thought he was dead...”
“Who’s that brute with him?”
I clench my teeth to keep from reacting. But it’s true, isn’t it? Even in my own Lorenzo Benedetti tux, I can’t be mistaken for anything but what I am. A brute. A monster.
A fucking animal.
I keep my hand on the Clemenza’s lower back. Guiding. Warning. He walks beside me with that same carriage Lorenzo Benedetti commented on, every inch the blue blood he was raised to be. And the vultures circle.
Salvatore Rossi, head of the Rossi Family, is the first to come over, accompanied by his wife and grandkids, all about the same age as the Clemenza—and they know him. Ask politely how he’s keeping, as if they don’t all know.
The little prince lies perfectly. “I’ve made a powerful and generous friend,” he tells them. “Damiano has been very kind.”
A public endorsement from the Clemenza, offered to important witnesses. And he says it warmly enough that anyone listening would believe it.
I should be pleased.
Instead, I feel the leash slipping through my fingers.
Then we run the gauntlet of the Alessi Boss, and his wife and grandkids. Big Gee gives me a nod of approval nearby. Seb’s with him. I hoped he wouldn’t be, since we didn’t leave things great last time we met up, and then I leaned too heavy on those Red Hook fuckers.
He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I turn my back on him before he can. Luca D’Amato and the designer dick-sleeve he calls his husband are talking with their flunkies across the room.
The Clemenza’s expression changes the instant he follows my gaze and spots the Morelli Don. I know that look. Seen it in the mirror enough times. It’s the face of a man haunted by the ghost of a murder.
Of course—D’Amato killed old Lou Clemenza. I actually forgot about that, I’ve been so focused on my own shit with Big Gee. My hand goes to the Clemenza’s arm, wraps around it, and for a second I consider steering him straight over to the Morelli corner.
Now that would hurt him. Making him smile and play nice with his grandfather’s murderer. Making him shake the hand that pulled the trigger.
Fuck.
I pull him in the opposite direction before I think too hard about why. He tenses but doesn’t break stride, doesn’t give those assholes the satisfaction of seeing any weakness.
I’m almost proud of him.
Our box is stuffed full of red velvet and gold filigree that reminds me of the cage I took off him earlier.
An elderly couple occupies the box beside ours, the woman dripping in old-fashioned pearls, the man in evening wear that’s probably seen a score of opera seasons.
The moment they spot the Clemenza coming into the box, the woman gasps audibly.
“Caligula Clemenza! My heavens, child, I haven’t seen you since that party at the Pierre. How are you?”
“Mrs. DuPont,” the Clemenza replies with charm, his smile warm and genuine. “You look radiant tonight.”
They keeping chattering together, and the way he slides back into this world like he never left it only makes things worse.
I’m the one who told him to act like a free man tonight.
He’s only doing what I told him. But he’s so easy with all of it, belongs in a way I never will.
These people are his people. This world was built for someone exactly like him.
And me? To these folks, I’m new money with a gun collection, and that’s all I’ll ever be.
“Sit,” I growl.
He does as I command, settling into the seat without so much as glancing my way, lavishing all his attention on the old biddy in the next box.
But I want his attention. His focus. His submission.
Mrs. DuPont, whoever the fuck she is, continues chattering about mutual acquaintances, charity boards, summer in the Hamptons. The Clemenza says all the right things back, mentioning people I’ve never heard of.
The lights dim. The orchestra begins to swell. Caligula Clemenza and his new best friend whisper their last whispers. He shifts to face the stage.
And I reach over, slow and deliberate.
My hand finds his thigh first, palm flat against the expensive fabric that’s just as soft as I remember. He goes rigid. My fingers find his fly, working the buttons free.
His sharp intake of breath is barely audible over the music, but I hear it. Feel it. He tries to grab my wrist but I catch his hand, pin it against the velvet armrest. “What’s rule number one?” I hiss.
He tries to pull free again.
“Don’t,” I warn softly. “You’ll make a scene. And wouldn’t that be embarrassing for the Clemenza name?”
I let him go. He doesn’t move his hand from the armrest, though his jaw twitches as my hand slips inside his pants. He’s not wearing underwear because I didn’t send any down with the tux earlier today. I wrap my fingers around his flesh, feel him start to harden despite himself.
“You fucking asshole,” he breathes, so quietly only I can hear.
“You should watch your mouth,” I murmur, stroking him slow and steady. “What would Mrs. DuPont think?”
Within seconds, he’s wet at the tip. His body knows who owns it even when his mind rebels. On stage, some guy begins to sing, his voice bouncing through the place, keeping every eye fixed, every ear occupied.
And in our private box, I work the Clemenza into rock hardness, pulling base to tip, twisting on the upstroke, using his own pre-cum as lubrication.
I ease up at last, let my fingers trace the thick vein on his underside, and he presses his lips together hard.
He’s trying to stay perfectly still, trying to pretend this isn’t happening.
But he’s leaking in my palm, a flush creeping up his neck.
He’s fighting a war with himself, and my hand on his cock is becoming the only thing he cares about.
The opera continues. Some lady comes out and starts wailing. The whole room is lost to her.
But not my little prince. His whole world has shrunk to my hand on his dick.