Desired: A Vampire Blood Courtesans Romance

by Monica La Porta

  For some inexplicable reason, instead of thanking her for her time and leaving, I hesitated.

  Mrs. Violetta walked to the settee in the corner and sat. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  “Paolo was taken to the hospital two days ago,” I blurted out without moving from my spot.

  “What happened to him?”

  I told her what I knew, and at the end, my voice wasn’t steady and tears threatened to spill.

  “I’ll call his brother, and I’ll keep you in the loop,” she said.

  “You know Paolo’s brother?”

  “We were close once.” A sad smile accompanied the dismissive wave of her hand.

  I didn’t know what to say after that bit of cryptic information and remained silent.

  “Paolo isn’t the only thing on your mind, is it?”

  Her direct question hit me like a slap. I stepped back and my elbow contacted the glass edge of the shelf, sending sharp pain up my arm.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, rising in one fluid motion and walking to my side.

  “I’m fine.” Needing to escape, I moved toward the door. “I’ve taken enough of your time—” If I remained a minute longer, I would spill my guts to this kind stranger, and I didn’t want to lose what little dignity I had left.

  Deep inside, I also knew that if I stayed, I would work up the courage to ask about the blood courtesan job. The insidious thought hovered below the surface, but I could feel the question forming on my mouth, and once it was out, I wouldn’t stop. I would ask more. I would talk myself into prostitution to save my house. It was the easy solution to all my problems. So why not?

  Mrs. Violetta interrupted my inner monologue by saying, “You were my last appointment for the day, and I’d like to unwind. Would you care to accompany me?”

  “I… should get going.” To where? The house I would have to vacate the next morning? I should have been looking for a room to rent but I couldn’t bring myself to address the problem. My shift at the bar wouldn’t start until nine o’clock, and I only had hours of self-recrimination and more crying to look forward to. Not exactly my first choice of entertainment.

  “I won’t stop you if you have another engagement, but I’m heading to Imago for their happy hour, and I could use the company if you have an hour to spare.” Mrs. Violetta reached for the door and exited into the hallway. Waiting for me, she added, “Their wine selection is the best in Rome.”

  Would it be so bad to say yes? I didn’t care for the wine, but I craved human connection.

  No, what you want is to have an excuse to ask her about the job.

  And so what?

  Aunt Marella is turning in her grave.

  Aunt Marella would understand.

  You think so?

  I know so.

  No, she wouldn’t. She thought vampires were immoral and sullied.

  I ignored my last barb, and answered to myself instead, Tonight is the last night I’ll sleep in my bed.

  Maybe I also needed the wine. “I have a few hours before my shift at the bar starts,” I said, following the woman outside.

  Chapter Nine

  Imago was an exclusive hangout located inside the Hassler Hotel, at the top of the Spanish Steps; in short, a place that plain, and now utterly destitute, Stella would have never frequented. Trailing behind the long-legged madam who climbed the marble slope on stiletto heels without any effort, I had time to regret my rush decision one hundred and thirty-five times, once per step.

  At the Hassler’s entrance, one of the bellboys gave me a raised eyebrow, but Mrs. Violetta smiled at him. He said, “Madame,” and stepped aside to let me inside the large foyer. The marble flooring shone like a mirror, setting off the antique furniture and the floral arrangements that perfumed the air with a fresh scent. Guests dressed to the nines milled around, conversing quietly as waiters passed with trays of bubbly spumante. Mrs. Violetta was offered a drink. I wasn’t. My clothes and overall shabby appearance made me stand out, but not in a good way.

  The scene repeated all over again when Imago’s maître greeted Mrs. Violetta at the restaurant’s door, and pointedly ignored me.

  “Miss Stella is my guest,” Mrs. Violetta said, and the expression on the man’s face changed from shocked to calculating.

  “Please, follow me,” he said, his voice unctuous as he gave me a long stare. He led us to the large window overlooking a portion of the Spanish Steps on one side, and the terraced roofs on the other. Catching me by surprise, he moved a chair for me, then took care of Mrs. Violetta’s seating accommodation.

  “Would the Miss care to look at our caviar menu?” he asked me.

  It took me a moment to realize that the maître assumed I would be working for the madam, and that he was protecting his investment by being nice to a potential client.

  My cheeks reddened, and Mrs. Violetta reached out her hand to wrap it around mine on the table. “No, thank you,” she answered for me. “Just bring us a chilled Montrachet and something savory to accompany the wine.”

  “As usual, excellent choice, Madame.” The man bowed to the two of us, then made a sign for a waiter who approached our table with a bottle of Perrier water. Appetizers and wine were brought to our table soon after.

  Coming through the large open windows, golden sunrays bathed the restaurant as the ponentino, the pleasant afternoon breeze Rome was famous for, ruffled the damask tablecloths. A violin played in the background, providing a decadent soundtrack to the most magnificent of sights: The Eternal City sprawled before my eyes; church towers, clay-tiled roofs, hanging gardens, pine trees, pigeons cooing—

  “What’s on your mind?” Mrs. Violetta asked.

  Blinking, I turned toward her. “I love this city.”

  “It’s impossible not to.” She took a small bite from one of the savory pastries in her plate. “But Rome’s undeniable beauty is not what distresses you.”

  I opened my mouth to refute her statement, but she raised one finger and continued saying, “The first time we met, you had an emotional cloak wrapped around you. I thought it was a protective shield and didn’t probe, respecting your privacy. But when you entered my office today, the cloak was gone, and I saw raw pain.”

  My attempt to talk was stumped once again as she added, “Yet, underneath all that darkness there was a sparkle. Deep inside you are a warrior. So, what do you want to ask me?”

  Now that Mrs. Violetta finally gave me room to speak, I stared at her, and not a single word formed in my mouth. The question was there, asking to be released. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said instead.

  With a slow, calculated gesture, Mrs. Violetta dabbed her lips with her napkin and not a smidge of her red lipstick transferred to the immaculate cloth. “Again, you don’t have to talk to me.”

  Where caution should have led my conversation, curiosity won. “How do you know I want to ask you something?”

  Mrs. Violetta brought her flute to her mouth for a sip. “My acquaintance with the vampire world comes with some perks.” She gave me a warm smile.

  I wondered how intimate was her relationship with the undead. Several of Aunt Marella’s more condemning comments about the loose men and women who consorted with the vampires came back to me.

  “They drink the blood of the heathens in exchange for eternal youth and psychic powers,” Aunt Marella had said.

  That would explain why Violetta looked much younger than Paolo even though they were of the same age.

  A sudden doubt banished my hunger, and I put down my fork; it noisily clanked against the porcelain edge of my plate. “Can you read my thoughts?”

  Mrs. Violetta laughed. It didn’t sound cynical, but gentle and warm. “No, I can’t read thoughts, but I’ve always been good at reading people. Vampire blood only enhances my gift.” She tilted her head and folded her hands in her lap. “So, is there anything you want or need to ask me?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because of Paolo. You a
re special to him.” She looked out the window, then turned to me again. “We talked about you.” To my frown, she nodded. “The other day, after we met, he called me. Paolo wanted me to look after you, to open doors for you, if anything happened to him. I didn’t think it would be so soon.” To my astonished silence, she said, “And I sense that even Paolo didn’t know the extent of your troubles. Am I wrong?”

  I shook my head. Tears welled up, but I refused to cry. My mouth flattening in a tight line, I said, “You are not wrong.” Then, words tumbled out in a never-ending stream, and my sad story was out in the open. I didn’t know what made me confide in a stranger, but I did, and Mrs. Violetta listened without interrupting me once.

  After I had told her everything that happened in the last few days, she kept silent for a long while. Finally, she nodded and said, “And you thought that becoming a blood courtesan would solve your problem.”

  “No!” Unable to control my visceral reaction, I blindly gesticulated, smashing my wine flute against the water glass. Crystal broke at the impact, raining glass shards and chilled Montrachet all over the table, spoiling a mushroom quiche and the adjacent ham and mozzarella pie.

  A waiter appeared out of nowhere, and with methodical movements cleaned the mess I made as I mumbled my apologies. A second waiter replaced the food I wasted with a tray of fresh baked bread and small appetizers.

  When we were alone again, Mrs. Violetta said, “I want to help you, but you must be honest with me.”

  I gulped down the lie that sprung forward. Looking away, I tried to gather the strength I needed to speak the truth. A tear slid down, and I let it, without raising my hand to dry my face.

  Before my obstinate silence, Mrs. Violetta reached out her hand across the table to touch mine. “You are not the first to contemplate the blood courtesan lifestyle as a means out of poverty.”

  “I can’t—” The words escaped me, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say.

  “You can ask me anything.”

  “I don’t think I could ever do it.”

  “Being a courtesan?”

  I nodded.

  “Why not?”

  “Because they are—” I stopped before I would call the girls who worked for her prostitutes. “I’m not that kind of person.”

  “And what kind of person are you?” she asked.

  I opened my mouth and closed it again. What kind of person was I? A failure, that I was. And I didn’t even have the willpower to tell her that. Instead, I stared outside. The sun slipped down behind the rooftops, making me feel immediately colder.

  “It wasn’t my intention to make you feel uncomfortable.” Mrs. Violetta looked around, and when her gaze drew the waiter’s attention, she made the writing gesture for the check. “I hope you’ll still work on my boxes. And I promise that I’ll call you as soon as I have news from Paolo’s brother.” She paid for our meal, then offered me her hand with a parting, “You know where to find me if you need anything.”

  Instead of taking a cab or the bus to Piazza Navona, I walked, needing to clear my mind. It didn’t work. When I finally reached Luci e Ombre, I was an emotional mess.

  Chapter Ten

  After my shift, I went back home. I should have already left—the inspector had given me precise instruction—but I needed another night among familiar walls.

  Sunday morning found me dusting furniture and straightening up rooms. It was pointless, yet I couldn’t stop the frenzy that possessed me. I kept polishing and mopping as if I were leaving for a vacation and didn’t want to get back to an untidy house. If I stopped, I would crumble. So, I filled the hours with useless chores, even though my time would have been better spent looking for a temporary place, but my brain stubbornly refused to think beyond the present moment. Not that I had many options. Couch-surfing was not a possibility since, besides Paolo, I had no immediate family or friends who would welcome me into their homes. The fleeting thought of sleeping in the stall in Piazza Navona entered my mind, and I shuddered, wishing it away. There was Aunt Marella’s property on Lake Como, but, besides the fact that the villa was in ruins—which meant no working utilities—and I hadn’t legally inherited it yet, what would I do there? There weren’t lots of job opportunities in that area.

  At noon, two officers knocked on the door. On their faces, I could see they weren’t happy either to have to drag me out of the house. I asked them if they could help me carrying my bags downstairs instead. The relief on their faces was almost comical.

  A few minutes later, we were outside, the three of us eager to get it over with. They had families to go back to. I had a bleak future ahead of me, but there was no point in lingering in the present.

  “I’m so sorry, miss,” the older officer said as he handed me one of the suitcases I had packed.

  I had already removed my bike from the garage, and with a heavy heart, I strapped the baggage on top of the box behind the saddle.

  The younger officer reached for the yellow duct tape and the official notice. “I hope you’ll get your house back soon,” he said before formally locking me out of it.

  I turned and walked away, slowly dragging the bike with my belongings. Where would I go? I hadn’t had time to make plans and now the moment had arrived. A veil of tears blinded me, and I stumbled on the uneven surface of the cobblestones. A strong hand steadied me before I could fall.

  “Thank—” The rest of the sentence died on my lips when I recognized the emerald of my neighbor’s eyes. For once, those eyes weren’t intimidating, but full of concern.

  “Are you okay?” Fabian asked, his gaze cutting over my shoulder at my door.

  “I’m fine.” His physical presence was overwhelming, and I couldn’t stand too close to him. It wasn’t fear this time; I just couldn’t bear his niceness. “Thank you.” I stepped to the side and tore myself away before I could do something stupid. Like losing my façade before him and bursting into tears in the street.

  “I’ll make sure your house is left untouched,” he said to my retreating back. “Nobody will enter it.”

  The sob was loud, but I couldn’t stop my emotional response to his words. I murmured another “Thanks,” and hurried around the corner where I collapsed on the sidewalk and cried in my hands.

  People stared at me, and several good Samaritans stopped to ask if there was anything they could do to help me.

  Finally, unable to stand human generosity a moment longer, I mounted my bike and went for an aimless ride across the city. My wandering ended at the Roman ruins in the Appian Way. There, away from any other living or undead soul—or as far away as I could manage in a city where millions of people lived—I sat under a centenary Mediterranean pine tree. Gazing at the quiet landscape, I waited for my heart to stop bleeding, but eventually accepted it wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

  The sun was slowly descending behind the ancient ruins and trees when I decided it was time I look for a room for the night and used my dying cell phone to find the closest B&B to Piazza Navona.

  Later, during my shift at the bar, I used all my breaks to look for a more permanent solution. I could only afford the B&B for a few days, but the average lease of a small apartment or even just a room was too high for my wallet. After paying the rent, there wouldn’t be anything left for the remodeling of my house. I widened my search to the outskirts of Rome, and then outside to the small municipalities north and south of the city. The Castelli Romani hamlets were too expensive, and Santa Marinella and Santa Severa, two of the villages bordering the Tyrrhenian Sea, were equally out of my reach. The truth was that even without an ancestral home to save, I could barely eke out a living from what I earned. Only a substantial loan would pay for Casa Colonna’s restoration, and no bank would ever consider me as a viable candidate.

  The next morning, I left the B&B after yet another fitful night and stopped by Piazza Navona to check Paolo’s stall, but of course, he wasn’t there.

  I could open the shop and hope to sell as much as I cou
ld. I might have to lower my creation’s prices to draw more interest for my miniatures, but then I would earn less. I could apply for more jobs. Only my Fine Arts diploma didn’t open many doors, and the work available to me paid minimum wage. It was pointless.

  Like an unrelenting tide, a group of Japanese tourists engulfed my spot, forcing me out of the way with their gentle smiles. Automatically, I walked out of Piazza Navona, letting my thoughts run wild in my mind. I barely looked where I was going, but when the Barcaccia Fountain came into sight, I balked.

  That’s what you wanted in the first place. You are not here by chance.

  No, I didn’t. I don’t!

  Stop lying to yourself.

  I—

  But I didn’t have an answer for my naughty self.

  Collecting my courage, I crossed Piazza di Spagna and entered the lateral alley by the Spanish Steps. At Mrs. Violetta’s door, I hesitated for a moment but eventually rang the bell.

  The secretary who had welcomed me two days ago opened the door with a bright smile. “Stella, what a pleasure to see you. What can I do for you?”

  I was surprised she remembered my name, and I tried to remember hers. Fortunately, it immediately came to me. “Hi, Francesca. It’s nice to see you too—” I gulped down my nervousness. “Is Mrs. Violetta available?”

  Francesca’s smile didn’t dim when she said, “Madame is with a client, but if you’d like to come back in an hour, she might squeeze you in before her next appointment.”

  “Sure.” I smiled back—not sure if I managed it right. “I can come back later.” I exited the foyer before my dejection would show.

  I didn’t know if I was upset because I had an hour to convince myself not to come back to Mrs. Violetta’s. Or if I felt like drowning because I had made my decision, and I wanted the whole ordeal to be over with before I lost my nerve.

  Never had sixty minutes passed as slowly as the hour I spent wandering around Piazza di Spagna. I crossed the length of Via Condotti twice, navigating against the flood of people that seemed to be a constant of Rome’s historic center. When the security guards flanking Bulgari gave me a suspicious stare, I moved to the other side of the street. The fragrant smell of roasted chestnuts came from the street vendors, whetting my appetite, and I considered buying a bag of the autumnal treat. The whooping ten euros per ten large chestnuts made me walk away from the vendor pushing the bag at me.