Capitolo Cinque

I walk into the bar after checking in for the night at West 57th Street Resort, by Hilton Club in New York City. Scanning the room, I look for something, anything to enjoy a few hours with.

Not seeing anything, I sit down and order a Manhattan. It seems the appropriate drink for a first-time New Yorker, and a much more masculine one than the cocktail those women on the show Valentina has been binge-watching, Sex in the City, consume—a Cosmo.

I look up at one of several televisions in the bar, all with either sports or stock information displayed, and shake my head.

“What’s so amusing?” a woman asks from beside me.

I turn and see a blonde. She’s pretty. Then I look past her and see a dark-haired woman sitting beside her. Her makeup is heavy, and she has a lot of ink. She’s exotic-looking, but not in cultural way. It’s more in a way that makes me want to touch her. Her eyes are downcast in a naturally submissive manner, but it seems to be a façade. Inside her eyes, I see hunger.

“What was so amusing?” the blonde asks again, directing my attention back to her.

“Places like this are meant to allow you to relax and meet people. This”—I point to the television—“doesn’t cultivate that type of climate.”

“Your accent?”

“Italian,” I answer.

“Of course.” Her blue eyes nearly sparkle. “How long are you going to be in town?”

“I’m here for the night,” I tell her. It’s true. I will be at this hotel for one night.

“Plans for the day?” she asks.

“Relaxing,” I answer, holding my hand up to the bartender then motioning toward the women.

He nods.

I take a drink, look back at the brunette, and then I sit back in the leather barstool.

The bartender brings over their drinks, already knowing what they are having.

They tap glasses, and then hold them up to me as the blonde says, “Thank you,” and the brunette says, “Grazie.”

I nod toward her. “You speak Italian?”

“I’ve been around. I speak several languages.”

In an effort to keep the conversation going, because there is something about her that intrigues me, I ask, “What is your name?”

“Jazz.”

“Like the music.”

She smirks. “Like the music.”

Four drinks later, I am invited to their suite.

I nod and smile inwardly, thinking that New York women are much different than those I have known in Italy. It’s normally my invitation and my suite. Although it’s out of my comfort zone, I accept. After all, this is a holiday.

When the elevator doors close, the blonde runs her hand down my shirt then the top of my slacks. “Told you he was hung,” she says over her shoulder. “God, it’s been so long. I love you, Jazz, but once in a while, I just need cock.”

Different indeed, I think to myself.

It meets a need. Two to be exact. I’m not sure about three, as I’m unsure the brunette feels the same.

For a moment, the moment right before the blonde sinks to her knees and swallows my cock, and then the brunette smiles as she spreads her knees, pulls up her skirt, and begins fingering herself I consider ending this. Three must come. Never two. Not in a Torzetto.

I wake to my phone’s alarm, in my room at the Hyatt, feeling relieved. I’m ready to face not one, but two women here in New York, and not in a way I enjoy two women.

As soon as my feet hit the ground, my messenger goes off. It’s Valentina.

When you come to 57th, bring me an iced coffee from a place called Starbucks. Double shot of expresso. And hurry. I’d like to do some shopping while Dominic’s girlfriend is at work since I know you are here to intrude on both of our privacy.

When I set the phone down without replying, I am immediately alerted to another message.

I snatch the phone up, ready to type back, SAY PLEASE, YOU SPOILED LITTLE BRAT, but it’s Dominic.

I am headed to Italy for a few days. Vincent is there now. He’ll fill you in. Please stay alert.

Of course, I reply, then add, Safe travels, knowing he doesn’t enjoy flying, either.

When I arrive, with fucking Starbucks, Vincent Celleo is sitting on a chair at the entrance, holding a hand-held device that looks like a walkie-talkie. I cringe at the thought that Valentina can now “buzz me.”

He stands and smiles. “Not what you think. It’s a portable monitor.” He shows me the screen. “Dominic and Valentina’s cousin Cyrus has a pretty high-tech system set up. When doors and windows open in the units, an alarm chimes. Each floor is set to a different sound. The front door isn’t connected because no one needs to be alerted. It does get set when you leave or at night, though. The screen lights up to the location of the opened entry or exit access. Heads-up, Valentina spends a lot of time on her balcony. I just take a walk around the building. She’s yet to try to escape.”

That’s because I’m not here, I think.

After he shows me around the office and the apartment on the lower floor where I will be sleeping, he leaves.

Not five minutes later, Valentina stands in front of me.

“Tiffany, Saks, Gucci, Ermenegildo Zegna, Louis Vuitton,” she says, looking around.

“Starbucks,” I say, handing her the coffee she ordered.

“5th Ave today. Clubs tonight,” she says, walking to the front door.

I set the alarm and follow her out.

She looks around then back at me. “Where’s the car?”

“It’s in Italy, Signorina Segretti. Here …” I look at her, making sure I am gifted with the look I am about to receive. “Here, we take a cab.”

As her face contorts into a disgusted look, I make damn sure to take it in.

“When in New York,” I comment, walking ahead of her, “you do as the New Yorkers do.”

“It’s Rome, Franco. When in Rome,” she corrects.

“We aren’t in Rome anymore, Signorina Segretti.” I slow down so she can catch up then look down at her six-inch heels. “You may want to change into some sensible footwear. New Yorkers do a lot of walking.”

“I’m not a damn New Yorker,” she huffs. “I could run a damn marathon in these things.”

“Yes, Signorina Segretti, I’m sure.”

I google the walking directions then look over at her. “It’s only a two-mile walk. Would you rather—”

“Find us a damn cab,” she huffs.

“Of course, Signorina Segretti,” I say as exuberantly as I can.

“You got laid last night,” she gasps as an accusation.

“What I do on my personal time is none—”

“I spent the evening with my brother, and you got fucked,” she sighs.

“I’m sure it was nice catching up with him,” I say, continuing the walk, secretly hoping she shuts the hell up, realizes she’s lucky to have him, or begins complaining about her feet hurting, which is what I am sure she will be doing shortly. God knows she doesn’t think outside of her current situation.

“Of course I enjoyed my time with him,” she says, surprising me. Then she immediately switches back to that superior tone she carries. “I’m just surprised you actually got laid without me.”

I don’t even ask her why the hell she would say that. I know it’s to piss me off.

“I mean, those women see you watching me. I’m sure it’s a turn-on—they’re lesbians. And people notice me, Franco.”

“You wouldn’t have it any other way, Signorina Segretti.”

She laughs aloud. “Ha. Do you think I go about seeking everyone’s attention? If so, you’re wrong. If so, I could have been out last night. But I am perfectly content with spending time with one person. One.”

“That’s wonderful, Signorina Segretti.” I don’t allow her to get a rise out of me. Instead, I look at the app then look up at the signs, before turning left onto 8th avenue.

“Where did you stay?” she asks.

“A hotel,” I answer, walking faster.

“Does Dominic know you’re a freak?”

I look over at her.

“Maybe he should. Maybe then he’ll fire you, and you can go back to your little town in Tuscany.”

“If you feel compelled to tell him what I do during my personal time, I may feel compelled to do the same.” As much as I enjoy watching her run in heels to keep up, I do not enjoy the conversation. “Maybe your brother would like to know you, Signorina Segretti, enjoy getting your ass beat.”

She doesn’t say a damn word as I step out into the street and raise my hand to the cab coming toward us. Thank God.