Page 35 of Casanova LLC

I held up a finger. “It’s not a business.”

Jacopo groaned. “My American nephew. Always convinced the polizia are listening in.”

“My Italian uncle, always convinced they can be bribed away.”

He gave a shrug: but it’s true.

I grabbed hold of the conversation. “Long before Giacomo Casanova lived, the church had managed to end the reign of the Venetian courtesan. But the skill of traditional lovemaking remained. An understanding that ‘sex work’ was not just about knowing the mechanics of love. It was about the art.”

Jacopo could not let any opportunity to undermine the legacy pass. “And then a nephew of Giacomo seemed to understand what we today would call ‘branding,’ took the name, and began trading on it.”

“And women just started coming?”

Low-hanging fruit: “In a manner of speaking.”

Jacopo, having had enough wine by this point, laughed. “Mostly local women to start. Wealthy Austrian and French wives with distracted husbands. Wealthy soon-to-be-brides with, how you say, jitters. Widows, of course.” He gestured to Claire and I flinched. She, however, did not.

“A generation later, came the Brits. Then the Russians. Prussians. Then in the twentieth century, the Americans, Persians, Japanese. And Chinese. And Indian. All the oil nations. No country was?—”

“Reality TV personalities.” Jacopo was staring off into space. “Pop stars.”

“Not countries there, Old Bull.”

“Are you sure?”

He had a point. Celebrity was an identity unto itself. So was wealth, frankly. Especially nowadays. All of the diverse cultures my grandfather used to talk about having to navigate had become homogenized into one unifying culture, regardless of country of origin: the privilege of wealth and access.

Claire took a sip of wine before asking Jacopo, “You took over for your father?” He nodded. “When?”

“The 23rd of May, 1990.”

I whipped my head toward him as Claire laughed. “How do you remember that?”

He lifted a shoulder and speared a scallop. “It was the day Milan won the European Cup. They make only one goal. In the sixty-eighth minute. I remember…” He glanced at Claire. “You’ll forgive me, but I was on the altano, the roof deck, my head between my first guest’s legs, when, from all around, I hear shouts of victory, whistles, clapping. For a moment, I thought this was for me!” He laughed. “I joke, I joke.”

Claire’s and my gaze collided in mirth. It felt intimate, like we were visiting my family and she already had a humorous understanding of my kooky uncle. It was so normal. But then she said, “And what about you?”

My mirth froze. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s uh. It’s been five years. Seven. Sorry. Seven years.”

“And was your first time as…noteworthy as his?”

I took a moment to assess her. Her eyes were slightly glassy, but it could have been from the wine. Her cheeks were deliciously pink. Her chest flushed. Charred blush, had she called it?

I got up and cracked one of the French doors. Jacopo stage-whispered, “There was no cheering, I can tell you that.”

On my way back around her chair, I found myself dropping a hand to her shoulder. Gave a light squeeze. Before I pulled away, she reached up and captured it in hers. Squeezed back. So I lifted it to my mouth and, eyes on Jacopo across the table, gently kissed it. The look I gave him was dissociated from the kiss. It was Casanova to Casanova. It was meant to say, I’m working here. Back off.

I sat down again. “I don’t kiss and tell.” I jerked my head toward my uncle. “His stories are old enough to be mythology. Mine? Not so much.”

“Fair enough.” She picked a piece of cheese off the forgotten charcuterie board. “So when did you—I’m assuming there’s some training process.”

Before I could answer, Jacopo hooted. “What training process? You think he knows what the hell he is doing? You’ll find out tomorrow just what he does not know.”

I slid his empty plate toward me.

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