“Come,” he said softly. “You must sit. You’ve been through more than enough.”
The entertainment room was steeped in richness, wrapped in the glow of candlelight. The walls shimmered with Venetian plaster in deep, burnished tones, giving the space a decadent warmth. Heavy drapes of crimson velvet framed tall windows, their folds catching the flicker of flames from the candelabra overhead.
In the center of the room stood a grand table of dark mahogany, its edges carved with delicate scrollwork twisted like vines caught in eternal bloom. High-backed chairs encircled it, upholstered in blood-red velvet, exuding elegance and menace. The air was thick with the scent of aged wine, burning oak, and Tomaso’s cologne—warm musk and something more dangerous.
Two ornately carved chests stood sentinel on either end of the room. One depicted a battlefield strewn with fallen warriors, swords frozen mid-clash. The other bore the image of a great hunt—antlers, hounds, and men cloaked in furs with spears raised high. Between them, the walls were dressed in grandeur. Towering oil paintings of sweeping landscapes and solemn portraits gazed down from gilded frames, while tapestries hung heavy with depictions of angels, serpents, and gods trapped in sacred struggle.
A great stone fireplace crackled in the corner, flames dancing ingold and orange hues. Above it, a tall mirror reflected the room in exquisite detail, the silvered glass bordered by an ornate brass frame carved with cherubs and ivy. Flanking the hearth were two deep armchairs, their cream-colored upholstery a gentle contrast to the room’s dark palette.
But the sofa dominated the space—a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Curved like a crescent moon, its mahogany frame glowed beneath the firelight, and the upholstery—an opulent blue-green velvet—seemed to shift like deep ocean waves. Carvings of roses and peacocks adorned the backrest, and the feather-filled cushions cradled the body in sinful comfort.
I drifted to it like a falling leaf, my body light, untethered, aching. The moment I sank into its softness, I felt Tomaso slide beside me, his arm slipping around my waist with practiced ease.
He held me in silence, his fingers tracing small, calming patterns against the silk of my gown. Then, after a long pause, he pulled back just enough to meet my eyes.
“I hope the lad was sufficiently punished for what he did to you,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with steel. “We must ensure something like this never happens again.”
I met his gaze; my expression was painted with sorrow and tremors of freshly spilled tears.
“Yes,” I whispered. “He was nearly beaten to death.”
Tomaso’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening.
“That son of a bitch deserved to die.”
“He got what he had coming,” I murmured, my voice quivering. Tears streamed freely down my cheeks, but beneath them, I felt cold. Hollow. The lies flowed now like wine—smooth, aged, inevitable.
“Please… let’s not speak of it anymore. It’s too hard to bear.”
Tomaso’s features softened at once.
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he murmured. “We won’t say another word about it.”
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his breath warm and intoxicating—equal parts comfort and control.
I shivered as heat pooled at the base of my spine. His breath lingered on my neck, sending ripples through my body. My lungs tightened, my heartbeat loud in my ears.
“I have something to share with you tonight,” he whispered, his voice low, laced with seduction.
“Yes?” I breathed, tension curling in my stomach as the silence stretched. Anticipation coiled like a ribbon inside me, tightening.
“Come with me tomorrow night,” he said, his voice a velvet purr. “To a party. Pietro Costa is hosting.”
My eyes widened. “Raul’s father?”
“The very same.” Tomaso’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “But this isn’t just any gathering. You’ll never experience anything like it. You’ll be free to do anything you desire… with whomever you desire.”
His fingers trailed down my arm like silk. “Though I expect to be included in your little indulgences. What would the night be without me?”
I giggled, light-headed. “Of course.”
The Costas. Florence’s elite—and its most whispered-about.
Rumors swirled like smoke around them—strange rites, rare poisons, secret rooms behind their villas. No one knew the truth. Everyone wanted to.
“So?” Tomaso asked, turning toward me with a glint in his eye. “Will you join me?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said, practically glowing with delight.
