I remembered that conversation well—when he “sold” me on the idea just like he’d sold me Bentleys over the years.
“Marco, one thing’s for sure, with the average bachelor age being around thirty-five, there won’t be many women over that age. Ripe, beautiful. Looking for love and money. And I’ll bet many of them are tired of boys—or boys trying to behave like real men. You’ve got the experience they crave. Been a Navy SEAL and have the scars to prove it. You came from nothing and carved your way out with years doing hard time on the battlefields and used it to your advantage. You’re smart. You’re lean and primed for some old-fashioned good times you so richly deserve.”
“You’re forgetting one thing, I’m focused on revenge,” I told him that day.
“Even better. They love men who are driven to obsession.”
“Why would that be?”
“Because a man who can’t fight can’t fuck. You remember that quote from Patton?”
“Yeah, we used to say it every night in Coronado after we got our leave.”
“Women love to be the object of desire by a man who knows better. Not a man who is beginning to get the lay of the land. They want an experienced lover who will ride them wet and leave them panting for more. You’re the original Italian Stallion, Marco. You’re the guy they’ve been looking for their whole lives.”
I must have looked skeptical, but I was seriously chewing on the idea.
“Here’s an added bonus,” Tony said as he sipped his purple martini that looked like it could be a Dr. Death cocktail. “You don’t even have to tell them to flaunt it in front of your ex. Women love to do that shit all the time. It’s human nature to them. It’s the, “‘see what a prize you threw away?’” stuff. Wars were fought over this, Marco. You know I’m right.”
He had several valid points, and then I investigated.
So here I was, walking into the marble foyer of the Bachelor Towers in Boston. It wasn’t much to relocate from New York City proper, and I was done with that whole life anyway. Boston had plays and musicals, opera, art galleries, museums and parks. And before I decided, I spent a day just walking around the city, finding its people were real, gritty, and not snobby like New Yorkers could be. It had great restaurants, lots of movers and shakers there. I would still maintain my apartment in D.C. so I could slip in and out without detection and with the security and anonymity I required since a lot of my business was generated there. Rebecca didn’t know about the safe house in Coronado and the lot in Florida, if the shit really hit the fan.
And it almost got that bad.
Everything that was important to me was in the small black leather duffel bag with the Bone Frog logo on it in my left hand. My right hand held a half dozen hangars of suits I couldn’t bear to part with. These had been specially made for me in Hong Kong and South Korea, sewn of the finest wool and linen blends, the seaming thread so lightweight it almost floated. Everything else I left with the brownstone in New York. I even left her my jewelry and my wedding ring. I didn’t want any taint of it permeating my new life as a bachelor.
Since the reception desk was empty, I looked for the person whose job it was to greet the residents of the Bachelor Towers, the person who I would probably get fired. I crossed the lobby to the neat bar sparsely packed with couples and three-somes, speaking in hushed tones. A piano player tinkled the ivories in the background. The bartender, Oliver, I’d been told had been stolen from the Waldorf. Hired for his discretion, he knew the tastes of just about any living legend, down to the number of orange peel slices, shavings or sizes of the ice cubes. I needed a drink badly.
“Sir? What do you require?”
I liked his attitude right away. His green eyes and slight brogue were charming. He’d taken this job to come home, I deduced.
“Something muddy, smokey, with an orange aftertaste. Not too sweet. Give me my next favorite signature drink, please, Oliver, if I may call you that?”
He surveyed the clothing I was carrying. “You may indeed.” Placing a coaster on the countertop he snapped his fingers. A young, handsome Filipino bellman relieved me of my load, moving in the corner of the bar, in the shadows like a clothes tree, awaiting further instructions. Again, very impressive.
“And what may I have the pleasure of calling you, sir?”
“I’m one of your new tenants, Marco Gambini.” I hesitated to mention the vacant front desk, knowing it might be career-ending, but I decided to go with truth. “And your front desk is missing an attendant.”
“Yes, Brent is attending to a little escort out the back of the building. It’s where we deposit the detritus, and it’s unfortunate you happened to come along during that moment. I’m sure he’ll be back shortly. And I apologize. This is on the house, Sir.”
He pointed to a deep purple/cobalt cocktail floating with some heady orange cream liquor, the red pitchfork plastic stir had skewered a bright red cherry. I liked the visual of the screwed cherry, though I didn’t like things too sweet. I sipped. Hint of fizz. Orange and roses aftertaste. Pure sex. I was hooked.
I held the squat etched glass up to him, “Perfect. What do you call it?”
“Midnight in Manhattan, sir.”
“I like it even better.”
I loosened my tie and unbuttoned my shirt. I felt comfortable studying the room. A young, very lean, blonde girl came up to me, sort of like the house pussycat. With practiced grace and subtle fragrance in a form-fitting dress that revealed how perfect her body was, she joined me at the bar.
I usually like to talk last. This time, I was going to tell her I wasn’t interested, but she beat me to the punch.
“So you are the legendary Marco Gambini, the billionaire SEAL?” She interrupted my possible answer to give her command, “Ollie, another one of those for me, with two cherries, please, and don’t let him pay for it.”
That’s when she turned to me and I did like what I saw.
“You’re timing is poor, sweetheart. I’m no longer a billionaire.”
“Oh, I think not. I don’t judge men by their performance but by their potential.” She glanced me up and down like a man does to a beautiful woman. “I’d like to be your first date, sort of a “‘welcome to the family’” kind of fuck, if you’d do me the honor.”
She got me laughing right away, and that was a good sign. I liked women forward, assured, and beautiful. She was nearly half my age, and that worked too, in all sorts of ways.
Brently Morrison, the front desk manager, burst into the bar, his hands wringing, breathless. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Gambini. We had a difficult situation, and I was pulled—”
“Brent, I think we’re good,” interrupted Oliver. “If you can show Lujan here to Mr. Gambini’s room, he’ll hang these things up for our new resident.” He turned to me. “Is that to your liking, sir?”
As I leaned back into the bar, the blonde moved close enough that I could feel how her body breathed, something I always loved about a woman. “Just one drink, and then I’d like to get settled. It’s been a long day.”
With another couple snaps of his fingers, Ollie sent Lujan, my suits, and duffel with Mr. Morrison. I still had the Glock tucked into the back of my pants since I never could get the feel of wearing a holster for the animal. I turned and caught her forcing a stabbed cherry between her red lips, biting and chewing it while gazing at me with steely light blue eyes.