He doesn’t answer, but his teeth clench. His gaze drops back to the newspaper, to the photo of the townhouse where he grew up, where he learned what it meant to be Clemenza royalty. Where he thought he’d always belong.
“Are you going to buy it?” he asks quietly.
The question catches me off guard. “Why would I buy it?”
“You’re a collector. You’ve collected everything else.” There’s no accusation in his voice, just weary acceptance. “The furniture. The paintings. The china. Why not the Clemenza townhouse, too?”
“What do I need with the townhouse?” I grin at him. “I’ve got a real live Clemenza of my very own now. The centerpiece of my collection. The crown fucking jewel.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react at all except for the slight quickening of his breath that I see in the movement of his chest. Then he asks, “What ifIbought it?”
I’ll give him this: he’s never predictable. “You have no money.”
“I haveyourmoney. The money in trust from the auction,” he continues, words coming faster now, desperate. “The ten million. Couldn’t I…” He trails off.
I tilt my head. “Why do you want it so bad?”
“Because…” His voice breaks slightly. “Because it’s the last thing left. Everything else is gone, like we never existed. But that place…” He swallows hard.
And I have to force myself to stay right where I am. To not reach out and push his hair back from his forehead.
“It’s the last connection I have,” he finishes quietly. “To the person I used to be. To what I was.”
There’s something raw in his voice. This isn’t manipulation or strategy, not like the last time I was down here with him. This is genuine pain, genuine loss, the kind of grief that hollows a man out from the inside. The kind of grief I understand from personal experience.
And it pisses me off.
I don’twanthis pain to matter. I don’t want his losses to be anything more than justice served cold. I sure as hell don’t want this twisting in my chest that feels suspiciously like sympathy.
I get off the bed abruptly, putting distance between us. “A property like that won’t go cheap,” I tell him. “Even with a scandal attached. If anything, that’ll make it more interesting to buyers. So youdon’thave the money, little prince. Not even if you paid out every penny of that ten million. You done?” I finish, pointing at the barely-touched breakfast.
He nods his head without looking up.
“I could make you eat it. Could force every bit of it down your throat.”
“I know,” he says tiredly. “But I’m not hungry.”
I study him—this broken prince in my basement, this last scion of a dynasty, with nothing left but his memories. Something about him is different today. Dimmer. The fire that made him so magnetic at the auction—that defiant spark that made a whole room want to pay for the privilege of tearing him apart—seems to be flickering out.
That’s the point, of course. Iwantto extinguish that light. That’s what revenge means.
I didn’t mean it to happen this fast, though.
I should’ve realized he’s no tough guy. He survived on the streets thanks to his Clemenza cunning, but I shouldn’t have expected resilience from someone who grew up rich and pampered.
I need to get out of here. I have other things to do today that don’t involve waiting hand and fucking foot on a man I consider my property.
His gaze travels slowly up my body until he’s looking me in the eye again. He seems cautious. Careful. Like he has something to say.
“What is it now?” I ask impatiently.
“Is there…” He licks his lips in what I assume is a nervous habit, because it lacks even his usual clumsy attempt at seduction. “Is there something I could do? To earn it?”
He sold himself at the Obelisk, so I’m not sure why I’m surprised he’s whoring himself out for real estate now. It’s a confirmation of everything I’ve ever believed about the Clemenzas. No honor. No pride. No self-respect.
But even as I think those vicious thoughts, I can’t bring myself to believe them. Not really. This is just desperation, a man grasping for the last piece of himself before it disappears forever.
“What are you proposing?” I ask at last.
