He called himself afinancier.
But she knew that he preferred to play kingmaker. Regime toppler, if given the chance, because he liked a show. He had his thick, fleshy fingers in every possible pot and sat here in his castle like a big, round spider, casting his webs far and wide.
Young Ivy had felt smothered and claustrophobic and had dealt with that by lashing out, which had garnered her precisely nothing. But she’d learned from that.
Today she simply walked in, kept smiling at him no matter what he said or what tone he used, and took a seat in the chair opposite his.
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” she said, politely. She’d learned that, too. The clever art of conversation with unpleasant people. She’d spent years figuring out how to use her status as a well-known nepo baby to get done the kinds of things that needed doing, in her view. She’d spent years learning how to shine brightly for men like this, because that was the only way to get them to part with their money.
And Ivy loved nothing more than a man who could be flattered into giving large donations to her charity. The orphans didn’t care how she got that money. They only benefited when she had it. It was her job to make sure she had as much as possible at all times.
“Yes, yes,” Umberto was saying. He swirled his drink in its tumbler. “You are here for your little fortune, I know.”
One of the interesting things about the way she’d spent the last five years of life was that Ivy knew a whole lot more people now. Many of them from entirely different walks of life than the one she’d grown up in. Herlittle fortune, as Umberto called it, was easily millions of pounds. Part of it was the money that her mother had inherited upon Ivy’s father’s death. He too had been an actor—but before that, he’d been born into the English aristocracy. Add to that the numerous fortunes her mother had made as a screen legend and no reasonable person would call her inheritancea little fortune.
But of course, to a man like this, it was nothing.
Ivy swallowed back her fury, the rest of the emotions this place and this awful man stirred up in her, and everything else she felt but did not wish to feel while she was subjecting herself to this game of his. Even the walls themselves were unsafe in Umberto’s private castle. No doubt plastered over a hundred times with the indifference this man had shown every person he’d ever brought here. Her mother included.
Her mother was the reason she was here. Her mother and what her help from beyond the grave could do for innumerable children in need.
“The funds my mother left me, yes,” she agreed, still with a polite smile. She had practiced and practiced, knowing that it would be difficult not to snarl at this man. It turned out it was even harder than anticipated.
Umberto nodded as if she was a small, precocious child who’d learned a big word. “I will help you with this, my dear.”
Ivy had to fight not to vomit.My dear.What a vile man he was. He knew she hated him. Got off on it, if she had to guess.
But, “Thank you,” was all she said, as if she thought he was sincere.
Because what else was there to say? Her mother had made Umberto the executor of Ivy’s inheritance. Ivy had some theories about how that had come to pass, most of them having to do with Umberto’s controlling tendencies, but that didn’t change the fact that she could not access that money without him signing off on it.
She had decided years ago that she would rather turn her back on her inheritance than subject herself to the kind of performative obeisance with too many strings to count that she knew Umberto would demand.
But times had changed. More importantly, her needs had changed. If this had been just about her, she never would have come back here. She would rather prostitute herself on the streets of London than demean herself for this man’s amusement. It had been clear from the moment he’d accepted her call that Umberto would make her jump through hoops once she’d come crawling back and that she would hate every moment of it.
Lucky, then, that this wasn’t about how shefelt.
“I’m an old man,” Umberto told her, with a smug look on his face, because men like him didn’t really believe they were old. Not the way other men were old. Men like Umberto didn’t believe that being old madethemweak the way it did others. They were so sure their wealth and consequence made thembetter. “My only joys in this life come from my business dealings and I have on the table a particularly exciting deal. I won’t bore you with the details. Pretty girls have much better things to think about, I’m sure.”
Ivy gritted her teeth, kept her smile on her face, and wondered—not for the first time—what it was like to be poor Leontina, Umberto’s usually wholly ignored daughter. She remembered her former stepsister as little more than a shadow in the corner, which had always struck her as odd when the two of them weren’t far apart in age. But then, she supposed that was an answer in and of itself.
“But in order for this deal to go through, I’m afraid there is a challenge that I must overcome,” Umberto continued. “There’s a moral stipulation, you understand.”
Ivy did not understand. She also didn’t care. So she nodded, trying to look as if she was actively listening to this.
Umberto smiled. Always chilling. “As you are no doubt aware,moralis not a word that has ever been applied to my son.”
That got her attention. Or rather, the sight of Giaco rising from the steaming water came back to her like a punch to the gut. She coughed into her fist, cleared her throat, and nodded. “I can’t say I’ve kept up with him in all these years,” she lied.
Well. It wasn’t really a lie, was it? She hadn’t kept up with him in the sense that she hadn’t privately considered him at all. But he was inescapable. The legend of Giaco Tavian was an international preoccupation. His collections of lovers. Their breathless tales of his prowess. The not-so-subtle hints of his sexual deviance, his penchant for bedroom games, his wholly indiscriminate selection processes, and the high-octane, jet-setting, partying lifestyle that went along with all of that.
Umberto didn’t seem to care if she was prepared to admit the omnipresence of his son’s sins or not. “When you called I realized that there was a simple, elegant solution. I’ve watched what you’ve done with yourself over the years, Ivy. It’s hard to imagine that such a spoiled, petulant girl could turn into the toast of London, but you’ve managed it.”
The Lizard King never blinked when he was busy handing out insults, and this was no exception. He watched her, clearly expecting her to react to his characterization of her adolescent behavior while trapped in his clutches.
Instead, she smiled and said, “I’ve been lucky enough to make great friends in London. I suppose we all have the places where we truly shine, don’t we?”
Umberto made a scoffing noise. “I don’t know aboutshining,” he said. “But most people in your situation, considered celebrities thanks to having been adjacent to the fame of others, follow a different trajectory. Yet you, by all accounts, are a living saint. Lady Bountiful herself, friend to orphan children, bestowing her kindness as best she can. Truly, a heartwarming tale to inspire the most cynical heart.”
