The Boyfriend (The Boss 7)

“We’re tourists,” El-Mudad reminded him dryly.

“You’re guests of Mr. Elwood,” the captain corrected El-Mudad. “You’re not going to walk down around in your sandals with socks and the...” He made a gesture to his middle to indicate a fanny pack.

“Oh, you’re right, I’m definitely not going to wear one of those,” I promised.

We pulled up beside a building with an entrance that looked very much like a hotel or apartment building in any city, with the exception of the fact that the small stoop was nearly water level.

“When the tide comes, this will be underwater,” the captain warned. “So be sure when you leave, you go before the flooding. Unless you don’t mind getting your luggage wet.”

A uniformed bellman came forward and took our bags as the captain unceremoniously hefted them out. Then, he handed us a small cell phone.

“This is a direct line to me,” he explained. “I do not work for Mr. Elwood full-time, but this is his phone. If it rings—“

He made the universe motion for “off like a shot.” Though, I wasn’t sure how that would translate into Italian.

“Understood,” El-Mudad promised, pocketing the phone before stepping out of the boat to help me up.

I thanked the captain, and we entered the lobby, where I skidded to a halt on my heels. I’d never seen anything like the place. A long gallery, one that could easily put Langhurst Court to shame, stretched through the building, lit with enormous crystal chandeliers. I almost expected to see a front desk and guests checking in, but this was an apartment building. This was just where people got their mail and waited for their boats.

I wondered if they had Uber in Venice.

“Let’s close the door and leave the cold behind, shall we?” El-Mudad joked, pushing me a few steps in. He reached beneath my chin to close my gaping mouth.

A blonde woman with neatly pinned back hair and a sleek pinstriped business suit approached us. I thought maybe she would tell us to get the hell out or something, but she smiled wide and said, in a distinctly American accent, “Welcome, Ms. Scaife. Mr. Ati.”

“Yes. And you are?” El-Mudad’s puzzled frown wasn’t unfriendly. He extended his hand to shake hers, and I did the same.

“I’m Vivian. Mr. Elwood has hired me to help you during your stay in Venice.” At our blank looks, she continued, “Mr. Elwood doesn’t keep a full-time staff here, but he does keep me on the payroll to hire the cleaners, make sure the maintenance is done properly, all those little things that you can’t let fall by the wayside.”

“You’re a property manager,” I supplied for her.

“In a way,” she agreed. “But I also take care of Mr. Elwood’s guests.”

“How often does he have guests here?” I wondered aloud.

“Every now and then he lends the apartment out.” She gestured to the rest of the room. “Let me take you to it.”

Neil had never mentioned allowing other people to stay in Venice, but it wasn’t the sort of thing that would have come up. He didn’t care for the place due to its association with his ex-wife, so it made sense if he wasn’t exactly sentimental about who stayed there. I assumed plenty of Elwood & Stern executives had brought their mistresses along for romantic weekends.

“While we walk, let me give you some history about the building,” she said, and went on without a breath to allow us to object. Not that we would have. “Originally a palace, the building was constructed in the fifteenth century and once was home to the Giustiniana Wynne—famously a close friend of Giancarlo Casanova.”

“Casanova was a real person?” I asked in disbelief. I’d only ever seen the Heath Ledger movie and I’d assumed that it was a folk tale.

“Oh yes, very famous in Venice,” El-Mudad answered.

“You’ll hear a lot about him on tours,” Vivian explained.

“And he’s real, and he’s really been in this building, probably?” I guessed, since his friend had lived here and all.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” she said with a nod. “Most likely in your very apartment.”

Vivian led us to a surprisingly modern elevator. I would have thought a building old enough to have seen the renaissance would have been a walkup.

The elevator doors opened onto a small foyer with a mosaic tile floor reminiscent of ancient Rome. Two tall plants in similarly styled urns stood on either side of the double doors into the apartment. She swiftly unlocked them and held them for us to go inside.

The room we entered was nothing short of intimidating. Directly opposite the doors, a huge, ornate fireplace, flanked by more potted plants, dominated a wall between egresses that led deeper into the apartment. A sleek black grand piano sat in the center of the space, leaving room for “entertaining” around it. Back home, pianos had been upright to fit into my middle-class friends’ homes. This instrument was one of luxury, and would have been far out of reach for someone like me.