Page 3 of Her Filthy Italians

Although our headquarters are closer to Treviso than Venice, I prefer to live here. I’m Venetian through and through and I’d never move away. Those years at boarding school and university in the UK were bad enough. In any case, Alessio is a Commissario in the state police. He needs to reside locally. I give him a quick call and tell him I’ll be home shortly.

Alessio and I go back a long way. We’re in our mid-thirties and met at a fundraising event ten years ago. Although we come from different social circles, we have a lot in common—we both love to run through the historical center at night, enjoy sailing in the Adriatic, eating out in the many good restaurants off the tourist trail, and we like to travel when we get the chance. We love each other unconditionally. Problem is, we’re bi-sexual and miss the soft curves of a willing woman in our bed. We’ve dated numerous girls together in the past, even tried living with a couple, but something was always wrong, and the relationships never lasted…

I disembark at the entrance to my family’s palazzo and stride across the ground floor to the marble staircase. This part of the building gets flooded when there are high tides, which is why the elevator to my penthouse is on the first floor. I ride up and push open our door, smiling as I breathe in the delicious aroma of pumpkin ravioli.

I go through to the kitchen. Alessio is standing in front of the stove, stirring the pasta sauce. “Ciao,” he turns and greets me. “Everything ok?”

“More than ok,” I chuckle. “I’ve met a girl. Can’t wait to introduce you to her.”

“Woah,” he takes a step back, his green eyes crashing into my grays. “I know that look on your face. Subtlety isn’t one of your virtues…”

I grab him in a neck hold and ruffle his short dark brown hair. “Ever cautious, amore mio.” I pull him in for a kiss, bringing my lips down hard on his. Our tongues play chase, a familiar dance. We suck, and groan, cocks rubbing together through our jeans. “She’s fucking hot,” I whisper into his mouth. “American. Pouty mouth. Mischievous blue eyes. Luscious dark brown hair, A natural beauty.”

“What’s she doing in Venice?” He squirms from my hold, picks up a sieve, drains the ravioli and tosses it into a bowl.

I retrieve a bottle of Valpolicella from the wine rack and reach for the corkscrew. “She’s an intern at the Guberman.”

“Young?” He places the bowl on our kitchen table and fetches a couple of plates from the cupboard.

I pour the red into two wine glasses. “Mid-twenties, I think. She has a master’s degree in art history.”

“We’ve never had an American before.” He forks food into his mouth. “What makes you think she’d be interested in taking on the two of us?”

“Just a sixth sense,” I swirl the drink in my glass. “But I could be wrong…”

“If she does agree, she’ll probably be like all the others,” he sighs. “Jealous that we love each other more than her.”

“There’s only one way of finding out.” My tone is serious.

“Okay. Okay.” He puts down his fork and holds up his hands. “What’s her name?”

“Serafina. Sefi, for short.”

He laughs. “A seraphim angel? She could be as angelic as her name implies…”

I remember asking her that question and how she’d come back at me. Showed she wasn’t a walkover. I like that in a woman. “All I know is she’s fucking beautiful,” I say. “And smart. She intrigues me and I’d like to get to know her. You will, too. It’s a given.”

He lifts a brow. “Hmmm.”

“Should I give her a call tomorrow and ask her to come over for dinner in the evening?”

His smile is slow and sexy. “I can pick up some clams and sea bass from the market…”

“I fucking love you, Alessio De Luca.” I lean across the table to squeeze his hand.

“Right back at you,” he says, and my heart pounds in my chest.Chapter ThreeAlessioWe go for a run after dinner, as usual, then watch an old movie on Netflix, Raging Bull, which neither of us have seen before. I find it hard to concentrate on the film… it’s been a hell of a day at work.

“Ready for bed?” Marco gets up from the sofa and holds out his hand.

I let him yank me to my feet. He likes to think he’s the dom in our relationship and I allow him his delusion. It’s more an equal partnership… and has been so since we fell for each other not long after meeting at a charity marathon to raise money for ongoing conservation work by the Venice in Peril organization.

We saunter down the tiled hallway to our bedroom overlooking the Grand Canal. I go to the high windows and pull the drapes, catching a glimpse of the wide channel of seawater below. At this time of the day, all is quiet. Hardly a ripple disturbs the serenity of the scene. The pearly white basilica of Santa Maria della Salute rises on my right, and the world-renown Gritti Palace Hotel’s golden lights cast reflections on the surface of the water to my left. I rub the stubble on my chin and draw my brows together. Everything looks peaceful, but I know it’s only a picture postcard peace. Venice may be a jewel of western civilization, but in recent years it has become an outpost of Mafia activity.

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