Page 90 of Savage Lover

Her lips look very tempting, beneath the blindfold of her hand. I could lean over and kiss her right now, without warning.

But I don’t want to tease Camille too much. I know she came here for a reason.

“Alright, come on in,” I tell her.

“In there?” she squeaks. “In your house?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Why not?”

“Who’s home?” she asks nervously.

“Just Greta. You already met her.”

Hesitantly, Camille follows me inside. I see her looking around at the ancient dark woodwork, the hand-blown lamps, the leaded windows with their panes of colored glass.

It’s still a grand mansion, though it is extremely old. Most of the main features are just the same as when it was built—a complicated, asymmetrical shape. Steeply gabled roofs with gingerbread trim. Odd textures on the interior walls.

Some things we’ve added, like the huge underground garage, the gym, and the sauna.

The Gallos belong to this house, in a way you rarely see in America anymore. We were raised in it. Shaped by it. Old Town is our home and always will be. While other mafia families moved to the trendy Gold Coast, or farther north, we stayed right here, in the heart of our own people.

Camille can see that. She sees the photographs of the generations that came before. The furniture older than I am.

“How long have you lived here?” she asks me, eyes wide.

“Well, my great-grandfather built it in 1901, so . . . a pretty long fucking time,” I say.

Camille shakes her head in amazement. She’s forgotten about making me get dressed. She seems shocked by this house that’s got to be ten times the size of her little apartment. Maybe even bigger, if you count the basement levels.

“I forgot how rich you are,” she says dully.

“I thought girls like that,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

Camille shoots me a pained look, and I immediately regret my stupid comment. Why can I never think of the right thing to say to her? I always knew how to get what I wanted from women before. It was easy to manipulate them.

But I don’t want to manipulate Camille.

I want us to be in that space we sometimes stumble into by accident, where we understand each other. Where everything is clear between us.

I can never seem to get there intentionally. The harder I try, the more I fuck it up.

“You look really nice,” I say, desperately. “But you know, I like the other way too . . .”

“The coveralls?” Camille says, the ghost of a smile on her face.

“Yeah. I like those. Actually . . . you want to see something?”

“I guess . . .” Camille says.

She looks scared that I might be about to show her my gun collection, or a room full of dead bodies.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand.

Her fingers link in mine. Her hands are small, but strong. I like the little bits of grease in her knuckles. I have the same thing on my hands. If I were to lift her hand up to my face and inhale, I know exactly how her skin would smell. Like diesel, soap, and vanilla.

I lead her through the kitchen, past Greta, who seems startled to see Camille actually inside the house.

“Hello again,” Greta says.

---