The casual ignoring of my presence, the way they talk around me like I’m hired help in my own house, is an insult.
“Strip,” I order the Clemenza, cutting through their friendly chatter.
Benedetti’s expression remains perfectly still, and as for the little prince, his smile doesn’t falter. “Of course,” he says smoothly. “Lorenzo, I hope you’ll forgive the informality. My generous host has some specific requirements.”
The way he says it—like I’m some eccentric billionaire with strange hobbies rather than the man who owns his body—makes anger bubble in my veins. I take a breath and remind myself that after Benedetti leaves, I’ll have all the time in the world to take out my irritation on the Clemenza.
He shrugs off the robe and Benedetti’s eyes widen slightly. Not at the nudity; the man has seen enough of it to be immune to flesh. He’s surprised by the golden cage locked around the Clemenza’s cock.
But the tailor recovers instantly. “Naturally, Mr. Orsini prefers things to be a certain way,” he says with a respectful smile to theClemenza. “For a man is king in his own home.” He approaches. “Shall we start with shoulders?”
The acceptance, the way Benedetti just incorporates this new information into his professional routine, is somehow more infuriating than shock would have been. And as for Caligula Clemenza, he stands perfectly still as Benedetti works, chin up, shoulders back. When the tailor measures his neck, he tilts his head exactly right. When the tape circles his waist, he adjusts his stance without being asked.
And they talk.
Christ, how they talk.
“How is Maria?” Caligula asks as Benedetti works. “Still terrorizing the apprentices?”
“Worse than ever. She would want me to give you her regards, by the way. She still hangs on to that bolt of Harris tweed you admired.”
“The gray? It was divine.”
I take in every touch, every casual familiarity, every reminder that they share a world I bought and fought my way into but will never truly inhabit. When Benedetti runs the tape up the Clemenza’s inseam—fingers brushing dangerously close to the golden cage—my grip on the arm of my chair turns white-knuckled.
Mine, the beast in me snarls. Other hands don’t belong there.
But what pisses me off the most isn’t the intimate touching. It’s the respect in Benedetti’s voice. The way he automatically treats the Clemenza as his socialbetter, despite the fact that the kid isa third of his age and standing there naked with a golden cage on his dick.
And the Clemenza prince enjoys that world of bespoke tailoring and careful courtesy like he never left it. He belongs there.
Meanwhile, I’m just a barbarian with a credit card.
“Bellissimo,” Benedetti murmurs, stepping back to admire his muse. “That posture—perfect. You can always tell good breeding.”
Good breeding. I’m going to fucking lose it.
“Your grandmother would be proud,” Benedetti adds softly. “You have her carriage.”
Caligula’s smile falters for just a moment. “Thank you. Thank you very much, Lorenzo.”
The genuine emotion in that exchange, the shared history, the kindness offered and accepted—it makes something ugly twist in my chest. The Clemenza was supposed to be humiliated by this, not find some connection to his old world.
“The fabric,” I say curtly, to kill the moment. “Show me the options.”
For the first time, I get out of my seat as Benedetti lays out the swatches with ceremonial care on the sofa: midnight blacks and navy blues, each one labeled with details I don’t understand—mills and weights and thread counts that mean nothing to me, but everything to the two of them.
He’s separated out the tuxedo fabrics from the others, but the Clemenza’s attention is immediately caught by one particularsample off to the side. Even I can see it’s different from the other samples. Special. Black, but not dead black.
“This must be Dormeuil,” he says softly, fingertips tracing the fabric. “Surely not their Vanquish II?”
Benedetti beams. “We were fortunate to secure one of the final lengths released—enough for a single suit. Two hundred and fifty grams. Midnight blue, so that it photographs far more richly than black. I had another client consider it recently for his husband…” He hesitates, just long enough. “But he has not committed. So I would be pleased to offer it to you instead, Signor Clemenza.”
“Then there’s no question. I must have that,” he says casually—and then catches himself, mouth snapping shut as he finally remembers his place.
His eyes slide to me, wondering if I noticed.
“You were saying?” I prompt him.
