Page 29 of King of Omen

While it was madness, deep down, I yearned to hear his rumbled bass in my ear.

To feel his sinewed hands on my skin and the scorching heat of his passion and intensity every day for the rest of my life.

Chapter 7

LORENZO

My home in Italy, nestled in the charming corners of Napoli, held a special place in my heart.

Surrounded by sprawling residences, gardens, and stunning views of the ocean gulf, it was packed with cherished memories of intimate gatherings, a kitchen overflowing with love and laughter and the aroma of beautiful food.

Villa Teroso, a testament to our family’s history, was built by my great-great-grandfather in the 1920s. This sprawling residence, spanning over six hundred square meters, symbolised our family’s legacy.

An eccentric, he’d favoured the local style of decorated portals, stucco frames, twisted columns, vaulted ceilings, and Arabian chimneys.

It boasted three levels and offered breathtaking views of the sea, Mount Vesuvius’ stunning beauty, and its underlying volcanic threat.

Which like my family’s impending battles, was always in one’s sight, heart and mind.

I prowled through a vast reception with two halls overlooking the arcades and a trio of patios, two dining rooms, a kitchen and bathroom, and open-airy ensuite bedrooms.

The second floor consisted of a spacious living room, a primary bedroom with a restroom and a walk-in closet.

A patio enveloped the chambers on three sides, offering a breathtaking panorama stretching from Via Posillipo to the sea.

I made my way through the house, pausing by the salon to gaze out of its enormous windows.

Outside on an expansive terrace stood immense twin fireplaces, massive majolica stoves, and a generous brick oven for pizzas.

I’d planted oranges and lemons in the luscious grounds and built a sprawling pergola with olive leaves around it.

Adjacent was a tennis court, a sizeable swimming pool, and a hydro massage, served by a bar and locker rooms with bathrooms.

The garden also featured monumental trees and grass lawns for days, with a stunning descent to the sea.

Yet, standing in the opulent setting, the magnificence and grandeur surrounding me appeared to mock the emptiness inside me, a hollow ache that refused to be silenced by my surroundings.

The growing upheaval in my heart highlighted the stark disparity between my external world and internal reality.

Still, to conceal my disquiet, I kept on my sprezzatura armour, the Italian art of making complex sophistication appear effortless.

On the outside, my appearance was relaxed, like I’d put little effort into it. My stylistic choices were a mask, a cover-up that emphasised a rakish personality and projected ease.

When I left the villa for meetings, my clothes were my shield, my unrehearsed and natural style crafted for nonchalance to conceal my innermost turmoil and unrest.

My soul, unsettled and in a whirlwind, longed to leave this place and make a new home elsewhere.

I’d been brooding for weeks, unable to escape the sense that life in this empty, grand mansion had little meaning.

My brothers lived in other cities, my parents had passed away, and my business in the region was winding up. My few ties to Italy were wilting away.

I entered my office and sank into the plush leather chair behind the mahogany desk, which had a panoramic view of the Gulf of Naples.

I pulled out the now-worn rose gold envelope that had travelled with me from jacket to suit, city to city.

When the purposelessness got too much to bear, this had become my ritual, a comfort of sorts, a tangible link to a memory I tried so hard to recreate.

I brought it to my nose, breathed in the faint traces of perfume, and imagined her voice speaking the words she’d written on the delicate paper.

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