Page 91 of Savage Lover

“This is Camille,” I tell her.

“I know,” Greta says, pointing a spoon at me. “We met at the door.”

“Greta’s the one who raised me,” I tell Camille.

“Don’t you dare try to put that on me,” Greta says, scowling at me. “You’ve never listened to one thing I said.”

“I’m still your favorite,” I say, grinning.

As I lead Camille down to the garage, she asks me, “Is that true?”

“What?”

“Are you Greta’s favorite?”

“No,” I snort. “Not even close. It’s Sebastian for sure.”

“Who’s your father’s favorite?” Camille says.

“Aida. Or Dante.”

We’ve come to the bottom of the stairs. Camille looks up at me, her dark eyes searching my face.

“Does that bother you?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “Why would it?”

I don’t let myself actually think about the question before answering.

Instead I pull her onward, flicking on the overhead lights.

Camille gasps. It’s a sprawling space, low-ceilinged, supported by pillars. The cement floor is freshly painted, and each of the cars has its own berth. There are eight cars and two bikes. Two of the cars belong to Papa, and one to Dante. The rest are all mine.

Camille runs around touching each of them in turn—the Scout, the ‘Vette, the Jag, the Shelby. But she lingers longest by my absolute favorite: the Talbot Lago Grand Sport. Still a work in progress, totally unable to drive. It’s going to be fucking beautiful, though. My magnum opus.

“Where did you get it?” she whispers.

“I bought it at an auction in Germany. It only ever had one driver. This old man, who bought it in ‘54. It sat in his barn for years. I had to get it shipped here by freight.”

“Have you done all the work on it yourself?”

“Every last bit of it.”

“God . . .” Camille moans. “Look at that body . . .”

The Grand Sport is all sleek, smooth lines—long like an American classic car, but with a posh European vibe. It’s a bit like a Rolls Royce and a Porsche mixed together.

“I know,” I say. “It’s the only one like it—they sold the basic chassis, then the bespoke bodywork was done by a custom coachbuilder.”

“What color are you painting it?”

“It was black, originally.”

“That’s good . . .” she says. “But imagine it in oxblood red . . .”

“They never made it in that color,” I laugh.

“I know. But they should have.”

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