Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Giancarlo
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed sightseeing while abroad, or had a vacation that wasn’t entirely related to business.
Probably not since my father died.
He’d been the one interested in seeing ancient civilizations or natural wonders of the world between Luxford Holdings responsibilities.
It was because of him that I got to scramble to the top of Machu Picchu, explore Petra and the Acropolis, and witness the wonder of the aurora borealis—that I understood there was an entire world out there aside from the privileged one we existed in.
My mother was choosy about which sites she accompanied us to.
The Taj Mahal passed the test—tribute to the emperor's wife that it was—and the Pyramids of Giza, due to their convenient proximity to Cairo. Otherwise, she traveled to lounge by the resort pool, enjoy the spa services, and spend the money she’d “earned” by birth and marriage.
As frivolous as she could be, she’d also instilled in me a love of craftsmanship and quality. Because of her, I skipped the cheap souvenirs and instead learned to invest in the signature style and materials a location was known for, like linen and blue opal from Greece, or Italian leather.
And how to trick the viewer with a carefully studied yet “carefree” facade of untouchable fashion.
“I hate to admit it, Luxford, but sprezza-whatever is where it’s at.”
As if I hadn’t been stealing glances at him all day, I took a long, greedy look at what Rowen was wearing.
It was one of the many outfits my stylist had chosen for him at my request—white chinos, a navy sport coat over a periwinkle blue dress shirt, and coffee brown Berluti Chelsea boots.
He’d unfastened far more buttons on the shirt than I would have, along with the cuffs, but paired with my “borrowed” Cartier aviators currently looped through his buttonhole, he was embodying the style perfectly.
For my part, I’d simply removed my tie from our earlier meeting and unbuttoned the top two buttons on my shirt, while swapping out my stiff oxfords for rubber-soled Paraboot derby shoes.
“Careful, Ro,” I teased, loving how he hadn’t fought against my bold use of an unsanctioned nickname. “You’re incredibly convincing as a ‘rich asshole’ practicing the art of sprezzatura.”
Instead of getting offended at the association, Rowen grinned devilishly. “All the better for me to rob them blind!” He produced my wallet out of thin air and waved it scoldingly at me. “You should really put this in a different pocket, Giano…”
I chuckled, knowing full well there wasn’t much in it and that he was the only person who could have gotten close enough to steal it from me today.
That explains the spontaneous embrace when our car service agreed to let us out at the Ponte Cavour…
“Why don’t you hold onto it for now,” I replied, worriedly glancing around in an exaggerated way, as if searching for more expert pickpockets in our midst. “It will be safer with you.”
He rewarded me with a genuine smile before tucking my wallet into the inside pocket of his sport coat and returning to his cigarette and Bellini.
We were currently lingering at a cafe after an early lunch in the Piazza di San Lorenzo, and I was in no rush to be anywhere else. After our private tour of St. Peter’s Basilica, Rowen had expressed interest in seeing more churches, and I knew the Medici family could deliver at this location.
Along with the boutique shopping.
“What time do we need to catch our flight?” he asked, leaning over to peer at my wrist before frowning. “Uh… Moneybags? It looks like your fancy watch stopped working.”
I glanced down to discover he was correct. My Patek Philippe Calatrava 6119 in white gold had stopped at exactly midnight—just about the time we’d stepped off the plane together.
Kismet once again.
I sipped the last of my espresso and pulled the money clip out of my front pocket, earning me a grudging nod of respect, before tucking more than enough euros under the saucer to cover the bill.
“Coincidentally, there happens to be a high-end boutique nearby who services watches like mine…” I stifled a smile as he chugged the rest of his Bellini. “There’s no rush, however. Unless your contact is expecting us at a certain time.”
“Nah.” Rowen stood and stretched. “As long as we arrive before dark we shouldn’t have to worry about Mick pulling a piece on us.”
Mick, hmm?
I’d long given up on knowing whether he was joking with statements like that, but now I was more fixated on exactly who his mysterious contact was.
More specifically, who he is to him.
“Mick is an old associate of yours?” I casually asked as I stood and straightened my coat.
Rowen took his time retrieving the sunglasses from his buttonhole and putting them on, hiding his gorgeous eyes—and his secrets—behind mirrored lenses. “Something like that. He and his sister Lucy were my first partners in crime.”
Such an intense blast of possessiveness shot through me, I forced myself to look away, across the square to our destination. “I see. Follow me.”
Rowen walked beside me in silence for a minute before I felt his fingertips brush mine. “No need to be jealous, Giano. Mick was my foster brother… from the house I was at before I aged out of the system completely.”
I stopped in my tracks outside the boutique, feeling terrible that he’d picked up on my unnecessary envy over some of the only family he’d had.
“You were in the foster system?” I asked, knowing Rowen wouldn’t want platitudes but eager for any drops of personal information I could squeeze out of him.
His expression—what I could see of it—shuttered the slightest bit. “Well, yeah…” He half-shrugged and glanced up at the building, as if forgetting he was safely hidden behind his sunglasses. “Foster care was the next stop after you outgrew St. Anthony’s Home for Lost Children.”
For the second time in the past twenty-four hours, the world tilted on its axis, and I had to place a hand on the marble facade of the retailer to steady myself before I passed out.
“Are you okay, Giano?” Rowen’s freckled face, sans sunglasses appeared in my blurry vision, peering at me with more concern than he probably meant to show. “Allergic to orphans?”
I had to laugh at that. “Not at all. The heat got to me for a moment, but I’ll be fine once we’re inside.”
He grabbed my arm and led me through the boutique’s doorway. “Yeah, let’s get you inside… with the AC and ridiculously expensive watches… Oops, did I say that out loud?”
Of course, he had, and—of course—his words echoed around the marble-walled room of the luxury watch retailer in a way that drew attention, but I wasn’t the least bit embarrassed by the outburst.
Everything in here is ridiculously expensive.
Like many interiors—and exteriors—in Rome, the color palette was neutral, with warm tans and creams on the walls, light wood chairs upholstered in soft gray fabric at the consultation areas, and a series of glass cases that stretched the length of the entire store.
And enough lighting to make everything expensive shine.
Rowen opted to browse the available merchandise while I spoke to a consultant at one of the available tables. After leaving my Patek Philippe with them for immediate service, I turned to join him.
Then, I froze.
He was standing in front of the Audemars Piguet display, staring into the glass case with an odd, almost angry expression. As I slowly approached, I determined the offending item was a first generation AP Royal Oak.
“Allergic to Piguets?” I teased cautiously, watching his perfect face for more clues.
“Yes,” he practically spat, pointing accusingly. “That one in particular.”
I nodded, addicted to how emotive he was being, but wanting to show support.
“It’s never been my favorite design. Blocky with far too much steel and…
overbearing, like something my maternal grandfather might have worn when he was alive.
” I snuck a glance at Rowen, noticing how his golden eyelashes were glittering in the light beneath his adorably furrowed brows.
“He was the epitome of a rich asshole, by the way.”
His wide-eyed gaze snapped to mine, as if surprised by the admission, before returning to the case. “Maybe you weren’t actually related… Do you like any of these?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and perused the offerings. “For you? I’d go with the Code 11.59.” I leaned down until my lips brushed against the skin beneath his ear—one of my new favorite places on earth. “It’s about twenty grand more than mine retails for.”
“Fuck, I am so hard right now,” Rowen blessedly whispered before turning to face me. “It looks like something a Bond villain would wear.”
“Precisely,” I purred, drinking in his dilated pupils, the way his lips were centimeters away from mine. “You have my wallet. Go on and buy it for yourself.”
He stumbled backward. “What? I can’t do that, Giano. I…” His gaze drifted to the watch in question with so much longing in his expression, I almost got jealous again. “How much is it?”
I shrugged nonchalantly, knowing he was close to folding. “54… 55k? Use the black card when you pay.”
That one’s for the trust fund.
“Jesus Christ, I’m gonna come in my goddamn pants,” Rowen muttered just as an unpleasantly familiar voice called my name.
“Giancarlo! What a lovely surprise…”
Hardly.
Stanley Monmouth, possibly the most loathsome of Luxford Holdings shareholders—especially now that Ana had shared what happened—strode toward me from one of the consultation areas, his smile blindingly white against his overly tanned skin.
“Indeed,” I lied, unable to think of almost anything else aside from how his hands had been up my lavender wife’s skirt. “I’m surprised to find you inland when your infamous yacht awaits.”
Infamous for all the wrong reasons.
His expression turned sour even as his smile never wavered. “Yes, well, business first! The young ladies of the Riviera will simply have to wait until after the ink has dried for my triumphant return.”
Asshole.
Rowen snorted beside me, drawing Monmouth’s attention his way.
“Stanley,” I nodded at the man I hated more than anything before gesturing at the one I was most certainly falling in love with. “This is—”
“Rowen Quincy.” The object of my obsession held out his hand, grinning in a way I now recognized as disingenuous. “FBI Art Crime Team.”
“Ah yes…” Monmouth put on an air of sympathy that was equally false as they shook hands.
“I heard about your mother’s collection being stolen from right under your nose, Giancarlo.
How terrible! Between that, Angelica’s tragic passing, and the Luxford Holdings condo deal we out-voted you on…
Well, you just can’t seem to win lately, hmm, son? ”
Deeeeep breaths, Giano.
“I have no doubt my art will be recovered quickly,” I icily replied, channeling my tragically dead mother once again. “And last I heard, the condo deal has yet to be approved by the city. Bureaucratic red tape can be so… aggravating, hmm, Stanley?”
Too bad the Luxford name holds a lot of sway down at City Hall.
Rowen was watching our volley like a front-row spectator at the French Open, and while I knew Monmouth was trying to humiliate me in front of an audience, I wanted my partner in crime to know exactly who we were dealing with.
This is the face of our enemy, Ro.
“If I discover you had anything to do with the surveyors being delayed…” my opponent seethed. “I will consider you in contempt of the company your father created, and unworthy of running it moving forward.”
“Well, aren’t you a fucking delight,” Rowen interjected, and it was all I could do to hold in my laughter.
“This is the only son of your late boss—a man who’s currently grieving—and you’re having a full-on temper tantrum in front of him over…
what? Some shitty, luxury condo deal being delayed? How very uncouth of you.”
I am going to marry this man.
The entire store became deathly quiet as Monmouth’s jaw dropped to the marble floor. I knew I should attempt to step in and smooth over the situation—that my rigid upbringing required I do exactly that—but I couldn’t find it in me to care.
Tiny rebellions everywhere.
“Excuse me, but who did you say you were you again?” a red-faced Monmouth sneered in Rowen’s direction. “You’re with the police?”
Rowen barked a laugh. “Oh, nonono. You must have misheard. I’m the guy who’s about to buy a fifty-thousand-dollar watch. So if you’ll excuse me, son…”
With that, my perfect companion sashayed away.
Monmouth muttered something about discussing his concerns about the delay at the next shareholders meeting, along with an unenthused apology for his rudeness, but I barely acknowledged him.
I was too engrossed in watching Rowen buy the Piguet I’d picked out for him with my forbidden funds, while exuding enough confidence to outshine anyone in the store.
In all of Rome.
I take it back.
Mother would have loved him.