Page 73 of The One-Night Heist

And if he wants to let me eat his ass again, I won’t say no.

Whatever I want.

Twenty-Four

Giancarlo

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed sightseeing while abroad, or had a vacation that wasn’t entirely related to business.

Probably not since my father died.

He’d been the one interested in seeing ancient civilizations or natural wonders of the world between Luxford Holdings responsibilities. It was because of him that I got to scramble to the top of Machu Picchu, explore Petra and the Acropolis, and witness the wonder of the aurora borealis—that I understood there was an entire world out there aside from the privileged one we existed in.

My mother was choosy about which sites she accompanied us to. The Taj Mahal passed the test—tribute to the emperor's wife that it was—and the Pyramids of Giza, due to their convenient proximity to Cairo. Otherwise, she traveled to lounge by the resort pool, enjoy the spa services, and spend the money she’d “earned” by birth and marriage.

As frivolous as she could be, she’d also instilled in me a love of craftsmanship and quality. Because of her, I skipped the cheap souvenirs and instead learned to invest in the signature style and materials a location was known for, like linen and blue opal from Greece, or Italian leather.

And how to trick the viewer with a carefully studied yet “carefree” facade of untouchable fashion.

“I hate to admit it, Luxford, but sprezza-whatever is where it’s at.”

As if I hadn’t been stealing glances at him all day, I took a long, greedy look at what Rowen was wearing.

It was one of the many outfits my stylist had chosen for him at my request—white chinos, a navy sport coat over a periwinkle blue dress shirt, and coffee brown Berluti Chelsea boots. He’d unfastened far more buttons on the shirt than I would have, along with the cuffs, but paired with my “borrowed” Cartier aviators currently looped through his buttonhole, he was embodying the style perfectly.

For my part, I’d simply removed my tie from our earlier meeting and unbuttoned the top two buttons on my shirt, while swapping out my stiff oxfords for rubber-soled Paraboot derby shoes.

“Careful, Ro,” I teased, loving how he hadn’t fought against my bold use of an unsanctioned nickname. “You’re incredibly convincing as a ‘rich asshole’ practicing the art of sprezzatura.”

Instead of getting offended at the association, Rowen grinned devilishly. “All the better for me to rob them blind!” He produced my wallet out of thin air and waved it scoldingly at me. “You should really put this in a different pocket, Giano…”

I chuckled, knowing full well there wasn’t much in it and that he was the only person who could have gotten close enough to steal it from me today.

That explains the spontaneous embrace when our car service agreed to let us out at the Ponte Cavour…

“Why don’t you hold onto it for now,” I replied, worriedly glancing around in an exaggerated way, as if searching for more expert pickpockets in our midst. “It will be safer with you.”

He rewarded me with a genuine smile before tucking my wallet into the inside pocket of his sport coat and returning to his cigarette and Bellini.

We were currently lingering at a cafe after an early lunch in the Piazza di San Lorenzo, and I was in no rush to be anywhere else. After our private tour of St. Peter’s Basilica, Rowen had expressed interest in seeing more churches, and I knew the Medici family could deliver at this location.

Along with the boutique shopping.

“What time do we need to catch our flight?” he asked, leaning over to peer at my wrist before frowning. “Uh… Moneybags? It looks like your fancy watch stopped working.”

I glanced down to discover he was correct. My Patek Philippe Calatrava 6119 in white gold had stopped at exactly midnight—just about the time we’d stepped off the plane together.

Kismet once again.

I sipped the last of my espresso and pulled the money clip out of my front pocket, earning me a grudging nod of respect, before tucking more than enough euros under the saucer to cover the bill.

“Coincidentally, there happens to be a high-end boutique nearby who services watches like mine…” I stifled a smile as he chugged the rest of his Bellini. “There’s no rush, however. Unless your contact is expecting us at a certain time.”

“Nah.” Rowen stood and stretched. “As long as we arrive before dark we shouldn’t have to worry about Mick pulling a piece on us.”

Mick, hmm?

I’d long given up on knowing whether he was joking with statements like that, but now I was more fixated on exactly who his mysterious contact was.