Valerio opened his hands, and looked at his palms.
“I’m between the hammer and the anvil,” he said. “If I wait…if I do nothing, Errichiello will force me. I need to find some way to push back before he gets his hooks in all the way. I have to try.”
—
Valerio felt unprepared for his meeting with Maria. He’d intended to look the part of a sugar daddy, had showered and given himself a careful shave, but his clothing options were abysmal. His daily work required him to be inconspicuous—which usually meant sneakers, T-shirts, and hoodies. Besides, Gemma and Davide had taken his sparecash, and he hadn’t bought new clothes for years. He had a decent pair of trousers that were only slightly too tight, and he could put some polish on his shoes, but he needed a shirt. Everything he owned was ugly—out of fashion, too small, or stained.
He considered asking Maurizio, but his partner was too thin. Then he thought of Dario, who always wore nice clothes. Also, Dario’s proportions were closer to his own—with generous allowances to fit a comfortable belly.
Valerio called Point Break. Graziella answered.
She chuckled when he explained the problem.
“Come on over,” she said. “Dario’s a fashion fanatic, and I need an excuse to empty the closet.”
—
He tried on seven shirts before finding one that met with Graziella’s approval—dark pink, with a nice collar, and smelling of Dario’s cologne.
She declared him “handsome” and “totally fuckable,” which, alone with the pregnant Graziella in the intimacy of Dario’s living room, both pleased and embarrassed him.
“Keep it,” Graziella urged. “He’ll never miss it.”
—
The evening was cool and dry. Maria was nearly a half hour late.
Valerio waited outside the trattoria. Standing still, the city sounds wrapped around him like a blanket. He was exhausted, head pounding. He wanted to sit. No—he wanted to lie down right here on the cobblestones and take a nap.
He called Ravenna.
“Just compliment her,” she reminded him. “She isn’t looking for a partner—she wants a lapdog. She’ll relax when she thinks she can control you.”
—
Maria arrived like a fashion model—slender legs flashing, hips swaying, tanned and toned skin radiant in the glowing streetlights. He kissed her cheeks, inhaling the candy smell of her perfume. He was honest when he called her “bella.”
The restaurant had been Ravenna’s idea; she knew the owner and he’d saved a good table in an intimate corner, away from the bustle.
When they were seated and had ordered wine, Maria tilted her head, gazing from beneath a thick fringe of eyelashes, lips pouting. She traced a finger along the glass.
“I was very angry with you,” she said.
“Yeah,” Valerio agreed, suddenly warm with humiliation, remembering the text Ravenna had sent in his name:Punish me.
“I made a mistake,” he said. “You’re a very beautiful woman…. I should have appreciated you—treated you better.”
Maria seemed uncertain.
Valerio knew he looked tired, and what he’d intended as a passionate plea sounded perfunctory. Wooden.
He felt absurd—sitting here, pretending to flirt, while he tipped with pain and fatigue, and while Luca and his thugs were preparing their next attack. He didn’t know how to be the actor this situation demanded. Maria wanted the safety and comfort of a rich man, but he’d arrived in a borrowed shirt, unsure how he’d afford the dinner bill.
She blinked slowly and smiled.
Be a lapdog, Ravenna had said.
Valerio took a slurp of wine.
