Page 88 of The Beast Who Broke Me
Marcello takes us to a private sitting room at the back of the house, which has a view of the small private courtyard with anoverhead sail of cream linen guarding it from views of other townhouses on the block. We could be perfectly alone in New York City. I can’t hear the traffic, can’t see anything but the beauty of the room and the garden outside.
The room is so full of color and texture—jewel-toned cushions, a Persian rug in deep reds and golds, heavy silk curtains—that it’s only when there’s a movement on the floral sofa, a silk kimono shifting, that I realize my cousin is already here among everything.
He’s sprawled out like a cat in a sunbeam, his black hair fanning across the cushions like a dark waterfall, eyes so green they remind me of Chinese jade. Spread across the low table before him is an array of food: figs, prosciutto, nuts, fat olives, artisan bread…and a small dish filled with golden oil that I have to look away from quickly.
What Marcello told us was true. They have been waiting for us.
Tiberius Vicario gathers himself and rises from the sofa in one fluid movement. He’s taller than I am, though not as tall as Damiano. Slim, elegant, very pale. When he smiles, his teeth are blindingly white. His green eyes travel over me with frank, unhurried interest before settling on my face.
“At last,” he says. “You really did take an awfully long time to find me, cousin.”
CHAPTER 30
DAMIANO
Watchingthe Clemenza and the Vicario standing there like two bookends from different sets is messing with my head.
They don’t look anything like each other, but somehow, they’re the same. They have the same posture, the same glow, the same look that growing up rich gives to people. But where Caligula Clemenza is warm bronze and gold, his cousin Tiberius is made up of cold contrasts. His hair is so black it’s almost blue, his eyes bright green, his skin like porcelain. The emerald kimono with gold accents he wears should be laughable, but in the context of the rest of the room, he belongs.
And I don’t think he’s playing a part. Some rich folks like to pretend they’re eccentric. Unique. Fake being interesting because there’s nothing there of interest at all.
This guy is unapologetically himself. Like Caligula. Or like Caligula used to be, anyway. Before I…
Before I got my hands on him.
Because that’s the thing I keep circling back to, even though I’d rather chew glass than think about it. The Clemenza I’m seeing emerge under his cousin’s scrutiny—that sharp, cool,untouchable version—it’s a performance. The armor has been pulled back on, but it’s sitting different.
Like the ruined shirt he pulled around himself after the safe house last night.
Before the basement, that arrogance was structural. It washim. Now it’s something he’s putting on and taking off, and I should know, because I’m the one who stripped it from him in the first place.
I’m the one who made him doubt himself.
“Please,” Tiberius says, gesturing to the loveseat opposite his sofa. “Sit. Be comfortable.” His voice has a strange quality—high, cold, but musical. His accent is carefully transatlantic American, in a way that makes me think he adopted it later in life.
Caligula sits on the loveseat. I sit next to him, feeling like some giant bear sitting down to take tea with Goldilocks and Snow White. The seat’s low and small, so I’m jammed up against Caligula, my thigh pressed along the full length of his.
Tiberius picks up the teapot and pours out three cups of hot tea. The teacups are such dainty little fuckers that I can’t even get a full finger through the handle, and it rattles in the saucer when I pick it up.
Caligula takes his cup and saucer with ease. No rattling. His eyes stay on Tiberius.
Something about the heat of his leg against mine keeps pulling at my attention. Last night, that thigh was dripping with oil and my spunk…
I don’t want to think about that here. Not in front of this green-eyed cat who’s watching everything.
“Thank you for receiving us,” Caligula says, and I imagine the metallic ring of a fencing blade being drawn.
And I worry. His opponent here is no washed-up gangster. Caligula might have been able to fool the Clemenzas, but I don’t know if he’ll be able to go toe-to-toe with this asshole.
Tiberius gives a sly smile. “I always welcome the opportunity to catch up with family, Caligula.”
“Cal,” he replies. “Family and friends—they call me Cal.”
“Cal,” Tiberius says thoughtfully. “But why try to make yourself so small and helpless as a Cal, when you could be razing empires as a Caligula? Unless it’s on purpose, of course. Are you trying to seem less threatening, Cal?”
Caligula doesn’t fire back instantly. He takes a sip of his tea to give himself time to think.
Watching him face an equal on this particular battlefield unsettles me. Not because this guy is a threat. Because he’s amirror. He’s everything the Clemenza is—brilliant, beautiful, born to this…
