Page 67 of Casanova LLC

I didn’t want to interrupt. I didn’t want to say anything. I had gone from a proud lion to a cornered mouse in the blink of an eye. “I have no idea.”

“EEEEEE.” An annoying final buzzer sound. “Wrong answer.”

“What answer do you want, Mr. Craven—sorry. Richard.”

“The honest one, Mr. Casanova. Sorry. Mr. Vianello. Do you have a preference?”

We stared each other down.

He clasped his hands behind his head. He’d won and he knew it, so he could be generous: “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know. It’s fucking baller, actually. The family castle, the lineage, the name every woman knows? Wish I’d thought of it.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Ally, relax, it’s a good thing. I need you, you need me. Maybe we’ll get fucking married.”

I stood.

“Oh, come on with your performative moral outrage. Like you haven’t fucked another man’s wife before.”

“Not like this.”

His hand landed on my shoulder. “You’ve got two choices here. Either sit back down and listen like the man of the world you are or clutch your pearls and get the hell out. But this offer expires the second you leave.”

I didn’t like breathing the same air as this man, but there were my paintings to consider. And more, my possible freedom from the very lineage he was trying to hold over my head. I stayed standing. “Why are you doing this?”

“It’s not for weird reasons. It’s not like I want to watch or anything.”

“Okay?”

He perched on the edge of his desk like a vulture on a carcass. “I know how this sounds in this day and age, but my muse? Money. And I’m about to get married, a thing I swore I would never do, because she’s…” he drifted off and looked at the floor. Something complicated momentarily passed over his face. I couldn’t get a read before his expression hardened again. “She expands my portfolio, let’s leave it at that. But what I’m not gonna do is be like every other fucking idiot who loses his mind when his dick falls in love and walks itself right into a hedge-trimmer. No piece of ass—I don’t care how valuable—is getting half of what I’ve built.”

“Isn’t that what a prenup is for?”

“Ding, ding, ding! We have a prenup, Your Honor. She said she doesn’t want any of my money and I could put that in writing. But if that got out, I’d look like a creep. Made her sign her rights away or whatever? That’s a no-go. On paper, she gets half. Shows everyone how much I trust her, right?”

“But if you trust her, then why?—”

“I don’t trust anybody.”

“What exactly is in the prenup?”

“Simple. We both are faithful or the whole thing is voided. And between us men of the world, that’s gonna be a problem. A problem you’re gonna fix for me.”

“Why me?”

“You fucking kidding?” he laughed. “You were designed in a lab for this. Not only are you a professional, which takes all the feelings out of it, but there’s the art thing. Hell, she’s half in love with you already. And she hasn’t even seen you yet.” He stood. “Just do whatever it is you do for a goddamn living.”

I tried to organize my thoughts. “How do you envision this happening?”

“Glad you asked. Our rehearsal dinner is tomorrow night. Come by. We’ll tell her about the gift, introduce you. At some point, I’ll leave. Which I’m known to do, which she hates, but which gives you the perfect opportunity to be a sympathetic ear. Shoulder? Sympathetic shoulder? Whatever.”

“You want me to sleep with her the night before your wedding?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I’d like to have that peace of mind before I walk down the aisle, yeah. But she’s, you know”—he stiffened his body again, like he was pretending to be a Redwood in some acting workshop—“so maybe you’ll only be able to lay groundwork tomorrow. Took me two years to get in her pants, but you’re a professional. I’m not here to tell you how to do your job. But if it does happen that night, don’t, like, overshoot and make her bail on the wedding. She falls in love with you, you’re a dead man. I’ll bury you next to your paintings. Kidding. Obviously. Oh, and one more thing: I’ll need proof. Irrefutable proof. I’ll have your paintings picked up tomorrow morning.”

“What kind of proof?”

“Proof. You know, pictures. Video. Ironclad. Work it out.”

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