There is nothing I enjoy looking at more than an Italian man in a suit, unless that man is specifically my husband and the suit is specifically Armani. As much as I tease him about it, Luciano D’Amato really was put on this earth to wear Giorgio’s creations. A match made in heaven—or maybe hell.
Either way, Luca in black-tie Armani makes my knees weak.
“You like it?” he asks, looking himself over in the mirror.
The tux is brand new; we picked it up after alterations just this morning. I come up behind him and look at his reflection. It gives me the advantage of being able to check him out from both backandfront. “Baby, if we didn’t have somewhere to be, I’d insist that we fuck immediately.”
“You like it,” he confirms with a smirk. “Alright. As long as you think I’ll pass muster with La Contessa as well.”
Tonight we are attending the opening night of the season at Teatro La Fenice, the Venetian opera house, where Luca is hoping to make first contact with La Contessa. She’s a great patron of the arts in Venice, and Luca hopes that showing himself in a similar light might pique her interest.
I watch Luca straighten his bow tie for the fifth time and then reach around him to do it myself. The thing about Luca these days is that he’s notjustgood-looking. Of course he’s gorgeous, but he’s been that his whole life. These days, those surface-level, devastatingly-handsome features are buoyed by his self-confidence, his self-control, his self-belief. They’re all qualities that make him completely irresistible to me. I want him more these days than I ever did at the start, and I would have cut off a limb for him at the start.
These days I’d crush empires, raze worlds, unmake universes. And I think he knows it now, after the catacombs incident.
Luca reminds me of all those old Mob Bosses who used to visit my Pops back in the day, the ones dripping with power, who could command and control with the slightest flick of a finger. And I’m not the only one who feels that pull. Luca holds as much sway over New York as any of those vintage Bosses did. He has come into his kingdom.
More importantly, he plans to hold onto that kingdom. To protect it. No matter what.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks my reflection, amused.
I’m staring all dewy-eyed at him. But why shouldn’t I? He’s my husband and I love him and I’m proud of him. “I’m thinking that La Contessa will be falling over herself to do business with you.”
“Ah, baby bird, I’m afraid you might be biased.” He whirls around from the mirror to sweep me into his arms.
“Biased or not, I’m sure you’ll break more than one heart tonight.”
“Venice is making you romantic,” he says, and then kisses me gently. “I like it. But I’m still very sure I won’t be able to pass in high society, so I’ll be relying onyouto supply the charm and the manners, as always.”
“I gotcha covered,” I assure him, although the truth is, I’m not sure ifI’llpass in Venetian society circles. I’m hoping our status as Americans will give us some leeway. I haven’t dealt much with the aristocracy before. Although maybe she’s not arealcountess; maybe that’s just a cool title she uses.
Maybe.
Fingers crossed on one hand, I let Luca take me by the other and lead me down to our waiting speedboat taxi at our private dock on the canal.
Venice is really fucking cool.
* * *
I’m not reallywhat you’d call an opera fan, but you’d have to be a Philistine indeed not to appreciate the atmosphere at Teatro la Fenice, the leading Venetian opera house, let alone not be moved by the sheer beauty of the building. The facade is in keeping with the surrounds—simple, discreet, the purpose stated by a minimalist banner hanging from the top, declaring the coming season’s operas:Faust,Madama Butterfly, and a whole lot more I’ve never even heard of before.
This opera house has burned down in 1774, 1836 and 1996 and I feel a strange kinship with it when I think of our townhouse. But the aptly-named La Fenice—the Phoenix—has been rebuilt each time with loving attention to detail. We’re guided by one of the theater valets to a private box, and I lean forward over the balcony to take in the feast of gilt-framed frescos, the plush red velvet seats and curtains, and the warm glow of the lamps.
Luca tugs me back from the edge. “Don’t give them a clear shot, baby bird.”
“What?” I turn to him, startled. “Do you think—”
“I think there are always people looking to do us harm. No point making it easier for them.”
I settle back into my chair, chastened. “Abraham Lincoln was assassinated in a theater,” I say after a moment.
Luca sighs and looks at his program. “Let’s change the topic. Have you seen this one before?”
“Antony and Cleopatra?Not the opera. I’ve seenThe Magic Flutethree times, and not by choice. You?”
“I’ve never been to the opera before.”
Sometimes I forget that Luca and I had very different upbringings. “Well,The Magic Flutesure would be a better introduction for someone who hasn’t seen an opera before.”
