Page 34 of Casanova LLC

“Still, please.”

He held it aloft, vaguely in my direction. “Sandro? When you come back in, yeah?”

This was actually happening.

Later, he would be dead.

But for now, he was a living pain in my ass.

* * *

For the next half hour, he dynamited the fantasy. For every question she had about something in the house, he had a story about the indignities of living in a relic with retrofitted plumbing and electricity. For every query about renovation, he made it clear how we were just paupers in our own home, living off the largess of rich women—so many women—servants to the burden of this legacy that had been foisted upon us.

Claire didn’t seem put off by this narrative. But then, she knew something, didn’t she, about living at the mercy of wealth. She appeared to take everything he said at face value, with none of the revulsion I knew he was hoping for.

When he took the liberty of retrieving a second bottle of wine from the rack behind him, I excused myself to prepare the mains. I was loath to leave her alone with him, but someone had to blanch the pasta and sear the scallops and it sure as shit wasn’t going to be him.

I returned with three plates in hand to see him refilling Claire’s glass while she shook her gorgeous head. “Yes, but what a history. Remarkable.”

I silently set their dinners before them.

I was a waiter.

“And during the two wars,” he began, “we opened her to anyone who needed shelter. But always, it was la residenza di Casanova. Ca’ Casanova. Even when there was fighting over who would next be chosen—there was a duel once!—no one ever lost sight of our purpose. The original Casanova, Giacomo, he is known as a lothario, yes? How many thousands of lovers. But anyone who has read his words, his autobiography, would know that he loved each and every woman. They were not, how you Americans say, notches on una cintura, they were given the full experience of love. But for them, only for them. My father”—here, he crossed himself—“he say to me, he say, ‘Jaco, it is how we do, we make the sacrifice. We give the love, but never do we take it.’ However?—”

“Claire?” I had to break this up. Or at least try to. “You might want to try the scallops before they get cold.”

“Oh, sorry, of course.”

“Sandro!” my uncle barked. “Per favore. Lei non é una bambina.”

“I know she’s not a child, but?—”

“Surely she is capable to talk and eat.”

“I would love for her to talk and eat,” I gritted, “but you are making her listen. And not eat.”

“And she’s loving every minute of it. Having actual conversation with people other than lawyers? It’s as restorative as anything else. Possibly more.”

I was chastened into silence.

“You see, Young Bull? You must learn to, as they say, read the room.”

My jaw clenched so hard it popped.

Claire cut into a scallop and brought half to her mouth. She closed her eyes as she tasted it. And sighed the most sensual moan. The sound pierced me, splintered me. I was struggling to manage my idiot uncle, Claire’s expectations, and my attraction to her at the same time. It was Olympic-level multitasking. She sighed, wistfully. “Food hasn’t tasted this good in a year. You’re bringing me back to life. Grazie.” She twirled pasta onto her fork and lifted it, pausing at her mouth. She gave us a wholesome, grounding, real smile. “Grazie mille. Both of you.”

I stole a glance at Jacopo, also rendered mute by her genuine gratitude in the face of our sparring.

But not for long. “Prego, Bella. Prego.”

As we all dug into the food, the two of us enjoying Claire’s enjoyment, Jacopo seemed to relax, as if he had accomplished something.

Which might have made me nervous, but I found myself oddly at ease instead. No, not at ease; content. There was something familiar about this configuration. Something comfortingly domestic. I realized it hadn’t happened since my mother was here, or at least since Liv got married, and the sudden rush of possible implications that ushered in was too much for me to begin to process tonight.

At one point the conversation turned to the old courtesan culture. How Venice had, at one time, been known the world over for its professional class of whores. How, during the Renaissance, Venice’s courtesans were respected and highly regarded. They were educated, literate, musically skilled, published writers. They were political counselors to their patrons. They were more mobile and independent than many men and more worldly than any other women on the planet.

Eventually, the talk turned to the Casanova empire itself. Claire prepared her last bite of pasta on her fork. “But how did the actual…” I could sense her hunting for the word. “…business start?”

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