Desired: A Vampire Blood Courtesans Romance

by Monica La Porta

  “Freshly brewed espresso in the thermos,” Paolo reminded me, tilting his chin toward the wooden stool where he kept the coffee tray.

  Using the delicate porcelain set that had belonged to Elena and without which Paolo wouldn’t drink coffee, I picked a tiny cup and poured some for him, and then I fixed a cup for myself. The strong Arabica scent filled my nostrils and made me feel like everything was right with the world.

  A few minutes later, I was working on one of my shadow box sculptures when the first wave of tourists inundated the square. I moved my miniatures around, assembling a pyramid to showcase the little details inside the boxes. I was particularly proud of my latest batch. They were summer-themed and every box depicted a tridimensional story where miniature people lived in an imaginary world. I needed magnifying glasses to paint the miniscule food and clothing, but the process centered me. While I squinted and tried to keep my hand still, I forgot I was penniless, and that momentary forgetfulness was all I needed most days.

  “How much is this?” a Japanese tourist asked, pointing at the larger shadow box on the top of the pyramid.

  The scene inside was a perfect replica of the stilt sheds dotting the waterfront in Santa Marinella, a beach town north of Rome where my family used to own one of the villas by the castle. Inside the box, miniature people sunbathed on the wooden terraces, a generous spread of food waiting for them on the wicker tables while their kids swam underneath the sheds, safely anchored to the stilts by yellow and red floaties. Like every Slice of Life shadow box I created, it was a memory from a former life.

  “That’s called Sunday Break by the Shore, and it’s two thousand euros,” I answered.

  “Oh, that’s too much. What about this one?” the tourist asked, moving his finger to the small box on the right corner of the pyramid.

  Another beach scene. A solitary lifeguard dragged deck chairs along a pristine shore. Red and white umbrellas cast shadows on the golden sand. A kitten slept on the sun-kissed canvas of one of the striped chairs.

  “That’s ‘Living the Dream.’ Four hundred euros.” I smiled at the man, who nodded.

  “Yes, I’d like that one,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

  Inside, I made a victory dance. It was the first sale of the week, and it would pay the electricity bill—one of them anyway. I was a few months late. After I carefully packed the shadow box, I gave the man my business card and wished him well.

  “It’s always hard to see them go, isn’t it?” Paolo said from his lawn chair, a cup of espresso in hand, his fourth or fifth already. Caffeine powered the man.

  “It doesn’t get any easier.” I sighed but didn’t add that I needed to sell all of them. Paolo didn’t know the extent of my debts, and I wanted to keep it that way. When he reached for the thermos once again, I raised my brow at him. “What did the doctor say?”

  Paolo gulped the rest of his coffee. “He’s wrong. I need to keep the level of Arabica in my blood steady.”

  He joked about that topic often, but I was worried about him.

  “I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t cheat. I’m entitled to a vice.” It was his running explanation, but it didn’t make me laugh any longer.

  I was about to reply, but a customer stepped under the awning.

  A beautiful woman in her mid-forties walked straight to Paolo’s newest painting.

  “Exquisite,” she said, her voice cultivated and soft. “Like everything else I’ve seen of yours, Paolo.”

  Paolo stood and hugged her. “Violetta.” He kissed her on both cheeks, then leaned away to give her a good look. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Always the gentleman.” Violetta tilted her head slightly, the long auburn tresses sliding over her shoulder, brushing her ivory silk shirt.

  “It’s nice to see you, my dear.” Paolo took her hand and gently squeezed it, then turned toward me. “Stella, this is my good friend, Violetta. We go way back from my university years.” He chuckled. “Violetta, this is my most talented student, Stella.”

  The elegant woman smiled the sweetest smile at me and reached out her hand for a shake.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” I said.

  “The pleasure is mine, Stella.” Violetta’s hold on my hand was strong and reassuring.

  Curiosity made me ask, “Were you a student of Paolo’s as well?”

  “Oh, no—” She laughed. Her eyes filled with mirth as she stepped away from me and turned toward my shadow boxes. “We studied together.”

  Her answer confused me. The math didn’t add up; Violetta looked at least two decades younger than Paolo. She must have one heck of a plastic surgeon at her beck and call.

  “Is this your work?” she pointed at the pyramid of stacked boxes.

  “Yes, they are my tiny world creations.”

  Violetta leaned closer to look at the top tier. “They are beautifully detailed.”

  My heart swelled with pride. “Thank you.” Feeling lighter, I proceeded to show her my miniatures.

  “You are right, Paolo,” Violetta said a few minutes later. “She is truly talented.” Then she turned toward me. “Do you have anything with vampires?”

  I shook my head. “Unfortunately, I don’t.”

  It might have been a prejudice of mine, fed by my fear and my Aunt Marella’s anti-vampire beliefs, but I had never thought of working on an undead scene—not like many other artists who were making good money exploiting the new market. I wouldn’t send away a potential client though, and I hurried to say, “But I could create one for you if you are interested.”

  Violetta nodded. “Yes, I’d like that. I’m always looking for something unique to gift my clients for Christmas, and a vampire vignette would be the perfect present. I’d like to order ten or fifteen shadow boxes. Do you think there’s enough time from now till November for you to work on them?”

  “Yes, of course,” I choked. I would use all my spare time—I would have to stop sleeping as well—but I would never turn down such an offer. My interest was piqued again though. What kind of business did she run? Her clients must bring her lots of money if she regaled them with expensive art for Christmas.

  “Meanwhile, I wish to buy the large vignette and the two with the dogs running after the bicycles.” She smiled. “Just for me.”

  For a moment, I remained speechless. The day had started on the right foot. Not only had Violetta commissioned more pieces than I could ever hope to sell in three or four months, but she had just singled out my three most expensive shadow boxes.

  “I can’t collect them now.” She handed me her black and silver credit card. “Would it be a problem for you to deliver them to my address?”

  Still unable to utter a single word, I accepted her credit card and swiped it on the card reader I’d mounted on my cell phone.

  “I’ll pay for the delivery of course,” she said, handing me a business card with ‘Mrs. Violetta’ written in glossy black over matte black. The address on the right corner of the card said, ‘Spanish Steps’ followed by the civic number.

  When I flipped the business card, it read ‘Blood Courtesans’ printed in deep red on the other side. The discovery caused a cold shiver down my spine. Mrs. Violetta was a madame, an intermediary between willing women and vampires who hired them to gratify their need for blood and sex. With the coming out of the vampire race, the oldest profession in the world had reinvented itself. As always, when I thought of women selling their bodies, my stomach revolted; but to sell themselves to vampires? Still, it wasn’t my place to judge another woman’s decision.

  With the corner of my eye, I saw both Violetta and Paolo looking at me. “No, it’s okay,” I hurried to say. “It’s on my way. Do you want me to stop by?”

  Violetta tilted her head as if she was thinking then answered, “I’ll be traveling for a few days. What about the end of the week? Would Saturday work for you? Say, five in the afternoon?”

  “Absolutely.” I returned the credit card to her, feeling on
cloud nine. “And I’ll start working on the vampire pieces right away.”

  Mrs. Violetta had just paid several months’ worth of bills. I didn’t have the luxury to care that she ran a high-end bordello for the undead. Things were finally shaping up, and I wouldn’t let moral prejudice cloud the moment.

  Chapter Three

  Tired but satisfied, I slammed the door behind me. The doorpost rattled, and some of the peeling paint from the wall crumbled at my feet in a dusty cloud, but I didn’t care. I was home.

  The day had started exceptionally well and ended on the same high note. After leaving Paolo’s stall at noon, I went to work at Pane & Amore, an eatery nearby Palazzo Madama, a street over from Piazza Navona. Since the Italian Senate was housed in the Medician Palazzo, the eatery’s patrons were either senators or their staff, which usually meant good tips. Today, they were overly generous.

  Then, at the end of my shift, the owner of Luci e Ombre—the bar in front of the eatery—approached me, asking if I wanted to work evenings and nights. One of his bartenders had left without notice, and he was in a hurry to replace her. He didn’t mind that I had little experience as a bartender and trained me for an hour before officially offering me the job.

  In the hallway, the clock on the wall chimed four in the morning. I was exhausted and barely able to stand, but I was well-fed, with enough money in my pocket to pay gas and electricity for the month, and thanks to Mrs. Violetta I would be able to settle most of the late fees. Oh, yes, there was this little detail of the fifteen shadow boxes I would have to finish in roughly one month and a half, but who needed sleep anyway?

  “I can do it,” I repeated out loud a few times.

  Another party was in full swing at my neighbor’s house. The music, laughter, giggles, and stroboscopic lights were too loud for my overtired senses. Strolling down the hallway, I passed before one of the windows facing the vampire’s building when I saw him, standing on his terrace. Resting one elbow on the parapet, Fabian had a faraway look. He wore an open shirt and held a crystal glass to his lips, managing to look devastatingly handsome and too perfect to be real—in a word, unattainable.

  I didn’t want him to see me gawking like a teenager, but I lingered a moment too long, and he caught me staring. His eyes glinted with a predatory light as he nodded at me, then a blond head emerged from below the parapet and a woman unfurled in front of him a moment later. The blonde rubbed her lithe body against his, uncaring that everybody could witness her scandalous behavior. He kissed her, but never stopped looking at me. I blushed and shivered at the same time, then ran to my bedroom, pressing my hands against my cheeks. The tangle of sheets in my unmade bed didn’t look inviting, but after closing the window’s shutters, I collapsed on it. After much toss and turning, I finally fall asleep sinking into the sagging mattress. I dreamed of receiving smoldering kisses from a handsome stranger and of buying a firmer futon.

  Four hours later, I woke up to no nightmares—a first in a long time—still tired but with a smile. An actual smile. I couldn’t remember the last time it happened. Maybe never. And even though I could have used more sleep, I waltzed in and out of the shower, then walked to the corner where all the bills still lay forgotten on the floor and picked them up. Lately, sorting mail wasn’t a pleasure, but today I started the process with a sense of accomplishment that made my smile grow even larger.

  Bill after bill, I went through the pile, prioritizing payments, and making notes on a piece of paper. I was about to take a break and walk around the room to loosen my sore limbs when a tan envelope caught my attention. It was addressed to Aunt Marella, and the sender was the Ministry of Cultural Heritage and Tourism. In the past, my aunt had often corresponded with the ministry because our house belonged to a number of buildings considered Roman heritage. At some point, she had also negotiated with a private company the rights to show the ground-floor wing as a permanent museum. Nothing had come of it then, but maybe someone else was interested in making an offer.

  Could today be even luckier than yesterday?

  With my heart lodged high in my throat, I opened the envelope and proceeded to read.

  To: Mrs. Marella Bramante Colonna

  From: The Ministry of Cultural Heritage and Tourism, Department of Habitability

  Mrs. Bramante Colonna,

  We are contacting you because the property in Stamperia Street, which is registered under your name, has been reported as unsafe and in direct contravention of Municipal Law 124/B. Please contact this office at your earliest convenience so that an inspection can be scheduled. Failure to respond in seven days will put you in danger of having the habitability of your house temporarily revoked.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Piacentini

  Habitability Head Department

  I read the words twice, checked the date on the right corner, and my heart plummeted down to my stomach. Six days had already passed. I grabbed my cell phone and immediately called the number at the foot of the letter. Dr. Piacentini’s secretary answered at the tenth ring and sounded annoyed, but after I had pleaded with her for a minute or two, she agreed to send someone to do the inspection soon after the lunch break. I immediately called Pietro, Pane & Amore’s manager, to inform him I would not be able to cover my shift. Pietro wasn’t happy, but there was nothing I could do about it.

  With a few hours to spare before the inspector would arrive, I decided I had enough time to go to Piazza Navona. I needed Paolo’s calm presence to lend me strength and soothe my frayed nerves.

  When I arrived at his stall, Paolo was on his phone, but smiled and waved as soon as he saw me.

  “What happened?” he asked, hanging up.

  Slumping into one of the canvas lawn chairs, I summarized my morning.

  “Is the building in bad condition?” Paolo poured some espresso for me.

  “The roof leaks when it rains for more than an hour,” I said. “But it’s not too bad.”

  Precipitation wasn’t common in Rome, but when it occurred it tended to be a full-blown thunderstorm. Fortunately for me, the previous winter had been mild, and I only needed to use the rain bucket a handful of times. Nothing to be worried about.

  “I’m pretty sure the electrical system isn’t in compliance with the law, but it’s not like I am in any danger of being electrocuted or anything like that,” I continued.

  There had been one instance where the whole house had lit like a Christmas tree for a moment, only to plunge into darkness soon after, but it never happened again. In truth, I called an electrician soon after, but his quote was prohibitive, and I promptly forgot all about it. As I said, power surges weren’t an everyday occurrence.

  “The hydraulic system might need some checking.” Showering was becoming increasingly difficult because the water pressure was low. It just took some getting used to. “The real problem is the façade, I think.”

  “What about it?”

  “The paint has faded, and it needs a new layer of stucco because the bricks underneath are showing, but it’s expensive. Plus, I need an architect to supervise the restoration because of the heritage law, and then it gets even more expensive.”

  Talking about my house’s poor state depressed me, but Paolo didn’t offer any platitudes, and for that I was grateful.

  “Have something to eat.” Fishing from the hamper, he fixed a sandwich for me.

  “Are you going to keep me company?” I just noted that the basket was full and his coffee cup was empty.

  He waved his hand to dismiss the notion. “The heat is unbearable today, and I’m feeling a bit off-color.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked, sitting on the edge of the chair.

  Paolo was wearing a straw hat, but under the brim his face was pale and his skin looked clammy.

  “I’ll be fine. I might be going home earlier—”

  “I can hold the fort until noon.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave.” Paolo pushed himself up.

  “Absolutely. Go home
and rest.” I watched as he straightened his linen jacket.

  “Good luck with the inspection.” He gifted me with one of his paternal smiles, then edged outside of the awning’s protective shade and grimaced.

  “Thank you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I waved him goodbye, thinking that it wasn’t hot at all.

  The rest of the morning passed in relative peace. There were a few tourists who asked about Paolo’s paintings and I explained that they weren’t for sale. Once, Paolo told me that the stall was his personal open-air gallery, where people could see his work without having to pay a museum’s entrance. I didn’t say that to the tourists, but I steered them toward the paintings that Paolo sold on behalf of his students and I could sell a few canvases. Some tourists asked for my shadow boxes, but none of my pieces found a new home today. I would not complain though; I’d had enough luck yesterday to last me a year.

  Noon came soon, and I closed shop, securing all the paintings inside a custom-made metal cabinet, then lowered the heavy grate of the stall and locked it, before I headed back home. The temperature was still pleasant, and I took the longer route to my house, not eager to face reality yet. Bypassing Trevi Fountain, I rounded the corner and entered Stamperia Street from one of the lateral alleys.

  As usual, the sight of my home made my heart swell with pride. Five stories, and a rooftop garden that was the envy of the entire neighborhood, Casa Colonna was a handsome example of Roman Renaissance. It didn’t matter to me that the building had seen better days. To me, there wasn’t a more beautiful house in the whole city.

  The inspector arrived later than I expected, asked me if I was the house owner, handed me a business card after I showed him my inheritance papers, then complained about traffic and the lack of parking in Rome while he checked the external walls. Once we moved inside, he was curt and walked through the rooms shaking his head often as he wrote notes in a worn notebook. His calligraphy was impossible to decipher, and I wondered what his jerky hand was scratching on the yellowed pages. After two long hours of silent scrutiny, the inspector finally stopped his wandering and faced me with a scornful expression.