“I’ll behave,” I assured him.Within reason.
Arden sighed and visibly relaxed. We showered together and climbed into bed. I’d been revved up from the club, but now, all I wanted was to hold him close, have him right there in my arms as a lover and a partner.
I wished I could be more certain that he felt the same way.
12
the benefactor
I’d researched Matteo Giacomo long before our meeting. Thanks to a few profile pieces and a more-than-adequate Wikipedia entry, I’d learned that his family had immigrated from Italy to New York in the early 1900’s. His grandmother had been a seamstress and his grandfather had worked in textiles. They’d owned several prosperous clothing shops around the city, but their real fortune had been built on their numerous patents, some of which were still being utilized in modern-day sewing machines.
Nowadays, the Giacomo name was known for their elegant formal attire—bridal gowns, cocktail dresses, and men’s suits—but the company had been branching out into more casual wear, including the fitted chinos Arden favored. I’d gathered that Matteo was the brand’s creator and innovator, while other family members managed the business, marketing, and distribution elements.
An artist, like myself, but certainly not a starving one.
We’d been invited to drinks at Matteo’s private residence. He lived in a quiet, (extremely) affluent neighborhood in the Upper East Side where mid-sized apartments sold for millions. A search through the property appraiser’s website told me that Matteo owned his entire building, worth a cool $50 million, at least. I’d known Matteo was wealthy but being confronted with its magnitude was an altogether different experience.
Arden and I shared a cigarette on the street to settle our nerves, passed between us like thieves. After, Arden rinsed his mouth with travel-sized mouthwash and spat into a bush. When I asked why he bothered, he said, “Matteo doesn’t like it when I smoke.”
I tried very hard to keep my expression neutral. “What about your hair and clothes?”
“That could have been you.”
Did Arden lie to Matteo? Had he lied to me as well?
“Michael, you have that look.”
“What look?”
“Like you want to throat-punch someone.”
I took a moment to unclench my jaw and inhale deeply. Arden forced himself into my arms and kissed me as reassurance. The lingering taste of smoke reminded me we were co-conspirators in this.
“I’ve never felt like I had to steal something from another man,” I confessed.
“You’re not stealing anything. I’m yours already. Matteo knows that.”
“How should I treat him, then?” I needed clarity, and Arden had given me very little to go on.
“Treat him like he’s my employer.”
“Is he going to…” I couldn’t articulate my fear. Or bear the thought of having to watch this man—a stranger—put his hands on my lover.
“No. It’s just drinks, Michael. Relax.” He rubbed my tense shoulders for a moment, then kissed my neck, just beneath the collar. He dragged me by hand to the front door, black wood surrounded by stone masonry. Stately and imposing. After a buzz to the butler and a message announcing our arrival, the door unlocked, and we let ourselves inside.
“This is where he meets with clients,” Arden said, waving in an offhand way to the large, open gallery with marble floors and tidy racks of clothing throughout. There were several sitting areas with plush, comfortable furniture, as well as fitting rooms and a few raised platforms surrounded by mirrors where I presumed clients were dressed. There were also a few drafting tables and swaths of fabric on racks.
“The second floor is where the models are fitted and photographed, and the third floor is top secret. It’s where his designers and seamsters work.”
I’d read somewhere that Matteo’s demand for privacy bordered on paranoia, though I understood an artist’s need to guard themselves from interlopers.
“Have you seen it?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m free to go wherever I wish.”
Arden bypassed the elevator and led me to a marble staircase. The iron railing was gilded in gold and curved elegantly to the upper floors. Each landing was met with a closed door, including the fourth floor where we stopped. Arden turned the door gently, and we were greeted by a middle-aged man wearing dress slacks and a starched shirt. The man greeted Arden warmly and offered to take his jacket and mine as well. I declined while Arden inquired about the man’s health.
While they chatted, I took in the opulence that surrounded us—stone pedestals and marble cut-outs displaying a variety of bronze and glass sculptures. Fine art in ornate frames adorned the walls. The marble floor was patterned in an Art Deco style, and the varnished wood doors appeared custom-made. Even the fluted glass doorknobs were probably antique.
