7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

T he ride home was just as harrowing.

I spent most of it with my arms tightly around Donvino's firm chest while my nose rested against the nape of his neck. The man smelled luscious. A heady combo of male and lime. My cock was half-hard the entire way home, which made for an interesting sensation of arousal and terror. Kind of like finding the vampire who's about to suck you dry incredibly doable.

We zoomed up to a glorious overlook packed with tourists that I begged my driver to stop at, if only just for a moment. He acquiesced, parking his bike down the street and then allowing me to drag him by the wrist to what he informed me was the Piazzale Michelangelo. Knowing this was prime Insta background gold, I indulged in buying a new T-shirt from one of a dozen or so vendors. Then I made Donvino wear it while we walked about the bronze statue of David, the representation of the perfect male paling in comparison to the gorgeous specimen sporting a size-too-small purple tee saying FIRENZE.

Donvino was always smiling, always willing to snap a picture or join me in an image. We dawdled about for a half hour, taking snapshots of me with the city of Florence behind me or him with the Ponte Vecchio to his right and me plastered to his left. I knew without a doubt that every image I shared would pull in hundreds of thousands of likes. Every person who glanced our way—men, women, and children—stared at Donvino. He was just that beautiful. Finally, he nudged me away from the views, his hand on my back, back to his bike. His touch wasn't possessive exactly, more protective if anything. That made me wonder if he was just being this kind because of my aunt or if he really was just this incredible. I was leaning toward incredible but reality rode my heels, reminding me that most people had selfish motives for their behavior.

"Now, remember to move with the bike," he said over his shoulder before throttling the Suzuki into Mach. My reply was lost amid the squeal of his back tire, the honk of a horn, and an irate Italian woman calling us something quite passionate. Not nice, I suspected, but passionate. The city began to fall away, the press of tall apartment buildings opening up to more open land, fresher air, and greenery. Our speed did dip a bit, thankfully, but not enough to afford me a better view of the farm where Bianca's wash snapped in the breeze. A gaggle of geese was alongside the road, shearing off grass—and unsuspecting American flesh—as we roared by.

"Ha, you suck!" I shouted at the gander when he charged behind us but was too slow to catch us this time. Smiling smugly at outfoxing a goose, I snuggled in close, knowing the cuddle session was about over. There were mixed feelings to be sure when Donvino cut the engine half a mile from the gates of Villa Bonetti. "I'm not sure my gaping wound—or my adorable Bison leather boots—are up for a walk. Can you carry me?"

He chuckled and shook his head. Being a darling, he pushed the bike off the road, propped it against a lemon tree, and turned to look down at me.

"Oh, you are a doll!" I leapt into his arms, hands locked behind his head, legs dangling freely. "I hope I'm not too heavy."

"No, you are featherweight," he replied, toting me up the hill and into the lush courtyard of my aunt's home without breaking a sweat. Or not a big sweat. He was glistening a little when he deftly placed my feet on the front step. "There, you are delivered safe and sound."

"Thank you for the ride and the images. Are you sure you're okay with me sharing your image on social media? Some people might get the wrong idea," I teased, rising to my tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek just as Giada opened the front door. Her gaze flicked from her grandson to me, her lips flattening.

"Signora is in the front salon. She would like you to come to her as soon as you are ready, Signor Arlo," Giada informed me before melting back into the cooler interior of the villa.

Donvino seemed to have lost some of his verve under that unhappy look from his grandmother. "I should go now. I have prep to do for dinner rush." He moved to take off the T-shirt, but I placed my hand on a pectoral which felt like warm marble.

"Keep it. It's a thank you for being so kind to me when I was acting like a limpet."

His dark eyebrow rose, but he smiled just the same, thanked me, and walked off. I watched him go, my gaze moving over his ass and thighs as he slipped out of the property. A few minutes later, I heard the sound of his motorbike kicking off. I skipped inside, spun around, and realized that I had no clue where the salon was.

"Arlo, in here," I heard my great-aunt call from one of the gilded rooms I had passed several times since arriving. This one was pale tans and whites, frescoes and old paintings of people in velvet hats and white wigs, and a white stone fireplace as big as five of my trunks. In front of the hearth, a leopard skin rug lay on the cool tile floor.

"I hope that's fake," I said as I entered, pointing at the feline with the glass eyes staring up at me as I passed.

"It belonged to your great-great-great-grandfather, Mattia Bonetti, who slew the beast on a hunting expedition to Africa. He was accompanied by Camilla Benso, the first prime minister. That is his portraiture on the mantle next to the small oil of Mattia."

I cared so little about the old men who shot a leopard that I kept my eyes averted from the tiny paintings sitting on even tinier easels on the mantle.

"Okay, that is so not cool." I stepped carefully around the leopard and took a seat on a beige loveseat facing my aunt. She was looking relaxed in a flowing dressing gown, tiny slippers, and only a few rings. "Were you taking a nap?"

"A nap? Goodness no, boy, naps are for infants and the elderly. I am resting before attending a dinner party this evening. One that you will escort me to."

"Oh, I don't think I can do that. I was hoping we could go to La Festa dei Leoni to see Donvino at work and—"

"Arlo, that can be done another time if you so desire. Tonight is a birthday fete for the wife of Lorenzo Ercolano, who is the president of the Ercolano Steel Works. People attending will be those who you need to meet and impress. Please make sure you are ready by eight and dress accordingly."

That pissed me off instantly. "I would much rather—"

"It is far past time for you to understand that what you wish is not always what you get."

Her voice cracked like a whip. "Now, stop this silliness, wipe that pout from your face, and act like the man that this family needs you to be."

"Fuck that leopard," I snarled, shot to my feet, and stormed from the salon. Like hell was I going to some snotty ass birthday party for some old bitch and her old bastardly steel magnate husband. Ginerva could glower and dictate all she wanted. I was going into Florence tonight to see Donvino in his waiter garb and there was nothing my aunt could do about it.

***

Right. Seemed reminding me that my trust fund hung in the balance was enough to have me ready by eight and in a suit that arrived at the villa at six p.m. via messenger. When I first heard the motorbike I flew down the stairs, leaving my sulk and IG posts behind, only to see that the biker was not Donvino, just some poor dude bringing me a package from Cavelli.

Sighing at my lack of backbone when money was mentioned, I carried the box to my room, opened it, and scowled. The suit was beautiful. Stylish, Italian-cut, black slacks and jacket, with a gorgeous red corset. I ran a finger over the satiny corset, then cussed out my aunt for plying me with clothes. I was such a designer strumpet.

At eight, I was escorting my aunt out the front door, sulking prettily but looking like a few million bucks. She, as well, was the picture of sophistication in a black draped silk-chiffon gown with a deep orange shawl, slim Gucci belt, and tiny flats. Black pearls rode on her wrists, fingers, and earlobes, glowing in the lamplight as we slid into the rear of a Bentley.

"You look quite presentable this evening, Arlo," Ginerva mentioned as she struggled with the seatbelt. I buckled her in, got a nod from the grand dame, and returned to my snit. I was a snit expert for all the good they did me.

"Thank you," I replied, nose in the air.

"Your father will be quite pleased when I relay that you have made the acquaintance of Signor Ercolano. His family and ours have been close for several generations."

I glanced her way to see her seated straight as a sprig, cane resting in her hands, her glasses nowhere to be found.

"I'd much rather be spending the night in Florence eating out and visiting clubs," I icily replied. Her exhalation spoke volumes.

"As one matures, one finds that one cannot do what one wishes all the time. Life is not lived on whims and escapades. Life is work, responsibility, attrition, and devotion to the church as well as one's family. You are no longer a small boy, Arlo, you are a man who is next in line to—"

"I have no interest in taking over this damn company! And as for my father being proud, who gives a shit?!" I snarled, trying my best to ignore the gasp from Alessio in the front seat. My aunt leveled her chin at me, her eyes snapping.

"You should care greatly about what your father thinks. He is your sire. He has done his best to give you all the advantages he could, and you have done nothing but bring shame to him and the Bonetti name. That needs to change. You must learn respect for your elders."

"Yeah, no, don't pull that old ‘you have to forgive family for everything because they're family' crap because no one buys that anymore. My father is a toxic icicle person who cares about nothing. He is a cold-hearted ass who ignored me for years as he buried himself in work and travel, leaving me to fend for myself with a nanny who was just as heartless as he is. I could not care less if he's proud of me or if he hates my guts. All I want is to get through this miserable year in this overly hot country, get my money, and move as far away from olives and la famiglia as one can get."

The car grew as silent as a tomb. My great-aunt stared at me as if she was on the verge of either hugging the poor woeful child or cracking me with her cane. I wanted neither, to be honest.

"This is not the time or place to show your insolence. We will pretend that outburst of temper did not occur."

"Suits me," I snapped, crossed my arms over my chest, and stared out the window as we climbed winding roads. Alessio turned on some music, the words in Italian, operatic voices. Ginerva and I rode the rest of the way to the Ercolano estate in crippling silence.

I might have been impressed with the multi-million dollar home sitting on a sidehill with a stunning view of Florence at night. Not tonight. I was too mad to admire the home of one of the wealthiest men in Italy. One expansive villa with gardens, pools, and limos was the same as the other if you asked me.

"Arlo, please act respectfully tonight," Ginerva whispered as we crept to the front doors, the line of elegant cars moving torpidly. "I realize that your generation and mine have different views of things, but one thing that never changes is to be respectful to people."

I threw her a look, and she met my glance.

"I'll do what I do best," I told her, opening the door as soon as Alessio was near the front of the mansion and then exiting the Bentley. I moved around the car, opened the door, and helped my aged great-aunt out of the back. She nodded at me, just once, as I steadied her and led the way to the man and woman greeting guests. I smiled at the hosts. Older couple, her dripping in diamonds and Chantilly perfume, he bald as a cue ball but sporting a ridiculous black mustache.

Hands were shaken, smiles exchanged. As we walked into the foyer, the crystal chandelier above us lit the entryway with subtle light. A man in a tuxedo took our coats. A maid arrived with a tray of bubbly. My aunt declined. I didn't. I knocked the flute back, squared my shoulders, and escorted Ginerva into a packed ballroom. At least a hundred people were here, most in designer suits and gowns, the air filled with tunes from a string quartet in the corner by a set of doors opened to a garden.

"If you would like to mingle, please be mindful of our name at all times. I wish to sit over on the bench with Se?orina Cappello for now." Ginerva tugged on my arm. My sight went to my tutor, who was sitting in a small cluster of padded benches filled with elderly women. They all spied us at the same time, their dark eyes flaring as I delivered my aunt to the old hennies club.

"Good evening, Se?orina Cappello," I said and bowed.

"In Italiano," Se?orina Cappello instructed, moving over an inch to give Ginerva room to sit.

"I would, but I have only completed my numbers," I reminded her, giving her a wink that got a few more giggles from the women in shades of black, blue, and magenta. My aunt was the most vibrant one in this cluster of matrons and she knew it. I backed away from the ladies, exhaled, and gave the room a long, long study. Only a few people here of my age, and most of them were serving drinks or toting trays of hors d'oeurves. God this was going to be a long night. Still, if I played my cards right, I could make a success of this gathering. Digging into my front jacket pocket, I pulled out my phone.

Shoulders back, smile in place, I began to socialize.

I schmoozed the living hell out of that birthday party. I took selfies with everyone, laughed at jokes that weren't funny fifty years ago and certainly weren't now, and slapped my business card in every hand I could. My father and aunt could cling to that stupid dream that I was taking over the reins of Bonetti Farms Olive Oil all they wanted. Arlo Bonetti was no dirt farmer. Each card that I handed out had my name embossed on it with the title ‘Social Media Influencer & Steam Trunk Artiste' under my moniker. I'd had them printed before I left for Fire Island. Needless to say, they'd not gotten much use as I was doing other things. Now was the time to start networking, just like Great-aunt Ginerva and dear Papà wanted. I hashtagged Bonetti Farms Olive Oil all over the place, adding other little gems like #steamertrunks #onlythecoolkidstravelwithtrunks, and one of my faves #maketrunksnotwar which was getting all kinds of traction.

If I had to be here at a party for those with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, I might as well make the most of it. The night would have been so much more enjoyable if I'd been sitting at that cozy eatery having Donvino feed me, wine me, and take me home. I'd gladly suffer through another death-defying ride through Florence with my knees on his hips and my arms around his middle.

I sent a text to him around ten, informing him that I was escorting my aunt to a lame party with no open bar, no DJ, and no one in attendance under forty.

That is nice for you to dote on your aunt. Good heart, Arlo. ~ D

I chewed on that for a moment as dessert was being served. Good heart Arlo. Not so sure that was an apt descriptor of me. I'd laid into Ginerva pretty soundly on the ride here. Sneaking a peek down the long table, I found her watching me as she sipped a glass of red wine. I lifted my champagne to her, got a nod, and then went back to trying not to gag on the breath of the prime minister's aide. Honestly, I'd never smelt such foul breath on any living creature that wasn't a ruminant.

Enjoy the party. See you in the morning on the dock? ~ D

I rushed to reply with a coy little ‘Maybe' and chuckled at the sad face emoji reply. I left him to wonder and turned my attention to the man on my left, smiling through the fog of halitosis to slip him my card as I asked if he would like a custom-made steamer trunk. I'd never redone one before, but a man had to start somewhere. If I could get some interest tonight, I could start making my designer trunks. They'd take off, I'd open my own store, and tell my father and his olives to take a long fucking walk off a very short pier. When I was a steamer trunk millionaire, I wouldn't need his money or his extra virgin anything.

"Steamer trunks are the only way to travel and not have to roll your delicates into satin logs," I insisted at his dubious look.

"Do you have satin panties?" he asked, his dragon breath thick as the zabaglione being placed before us.

"Only my steamer trunks know for sure!"

He laughed. I laughed even as my eyes watered. And I could hear the ping-ping-ping of fashionable folk hitting me up in DMs to ask about the trunks in my mind.