Page 59 of Dirty Mafia King
Now his lips are curling. “Give it here.”
I approach the side of the tub and hand it to him, an explanation on my lips. Because we’re connecting and I don’t want to disappoint him. “I never smoked before.”
“Not even pot?”
I shake my head.
“Haven’t experienced a lot of things, have you?”
“No.”
He offers me a lopsided grin, and my pulse kicks up in response. “Like the angel sculpture inside that Roman chapel. So innocent. So pure. So about to get fucked by Cupid’s arrow.”
My jaw drops.
“Do you know it? The sculpture’s calledEcstasy of Saint Teresa?”
Know it? “She’s inside the Santa Maria della Vittoria chapel,” I exclaim. “I spent a lot of time there studying the Baroque masterpiece. She’s in a state of religious rapture. The sculptor is infamous for his highly sensual depictions of everyday people becoming overwrought by faith.” I pause, then add, “And the arrow’s pointed at her heart.”
“Debatable.” He soaks the loofah in the water before dragging it across his chest, from one nipple to the other. As if coating his chest with bubbles is the most natural thing in the world.
I fight back a groan, and then force my attention toward the unexpected twist in conversation. Sebastiano Beneventi is interested in Italian art? “Gian Bernini is the sculptor,” I say, testing to see how much he actually knows.
“Gian Lorenzo Bernini.”
“Wait … Lorenzo?”
“I named the little shit after the artist.”
In life, there are monumental moments where your world shifts unexpectedly. Mama’s death. Daddy Dearest’s abandonment. My engagement to Sandro. Sometimes, though, instead of knocking you off-balance, it deepens the connection. This is that moment. I can’t believe it. Sebastiano Beneventi named his son after an Italian masterpiece. If Saint Teresa was enraptured by God, this man has me thunderstruck.
And his smirk says he knows it.
“And Sandro?” I clasp my hands, needing to know.
“When I was younger, I thought Venus naked on that clamshell was the hottest fucking thing I’d ever seen.”
I exclaim, “The Birth of Venus.”
“Painted by Alessandro Botticelli.”
Oh my God. Both twins are named after Italian artists.
“I paid a lot of fucking money and bribed a few people to have their names legally changed after the paternity test came back positive. My old man was livid—thought it was a sign I’d be distracted by them. He had his mind set on taking them away because of it.” He takes a long drag of his cigar, then blows rings into the air, as I quietly contemplate the rare glimpse of emotion in his expression.
It pains me that Renzo’s childhood was so difficult and that Bastian’s early days as a father were so harsh. At the same time, I’m thrilled with how he’s confided in me. I get the feeling few people are allowed into his world, and fewer still privy to his private struggles.
Our eyes lock. And just like that, the game we’re playing morphs into something deeper.
His brows dip into a deepV, and a chill sweeps through the air. He regrets opening up. He’s seconds from shattering this fragile connection.
I blurt out something, anything, to lighten the mood. “Is he really buried near the ninth hole?”
I’m immediately horrified. Why ask such a morbid question?
His eyes grow wide, and then he bursts into laughter. It reverberates from his stomach, and comes out of him as a sexy rumble. “Did Renzo tell you that?” he asks between gasps.
I shake my head.
