Chapter Text
Cristiano stands in front of a gorgeous building, apparently where he may be working as a part-time housekeeper for the rest of the summer, and thinks, for perhaps the fourth time that afternoon, that he has probably misunderstood something.
He checks the address on his phone, then the number beside the door, then his phone again.
No. Right place.
Which is unfortunate, because Cristiano has spent the entire bus ride here preparing himself for a normal apartment belonging to a normal rich person. Maybe an elderly woman with too many porcelain figurines. Maybe some businessman who works eighty hours a week and needs somebody to stop his kitchen from developing its own ecosystem. At worst, a family with sticky children.
He had not prepared for this.
The building rises six stories above the quiet, tree-lined street, all pale stone and black iron balconies, with tall windows framed in dark green and an entrance large enough that Cristiano briefly wonders whether there should be a doorman standing in front of it. There isn't. There is, however, an enormous brass knocker shaped like a lion's head.
Cristiano stares at it, then he looks down at himself.
Black T-shirt. Jeans. Sneakers. Backpack hanging from one shoulder. He had considered wearing a button-down, then decided that dressing formally for a housekeeping job would make him look insane.
Standing here now, he is reconsidering.
**
The listing had been weirdly vague and written in language Cristiano was fairly certain had stopped being legally usable sometime around the invention of electricity:
Wanted, for the keeping of a gentleman’s household, one person of sound constitution and sober habits, neither idle nor given to impertinent curiosity. He shall be of clean person, good temper, and discreet tongue, and shall attend faithfully to the ordering of chambers, washing of linens, and such other domestic offices as may from time to time be required. Attendance after the setting of the sun is much preferred. Those inclined to gossip, thievery, drunkenness, or other moral defects are entreated not to apply. Wages shall be liberal unto the suitable applicant. Enquiries to be made in writing.
Cristiano had actually laughed out loud when his roommate, Pepe, read it to him from the depths of a campus message board. He had laughed, and then he had looked at his bank account balance, sighed, and drafted an email.
Dear Sir, he had typed, sitting under the flickering fluorescent lights of the university library. I am of sound constitution. I do not gossip, thieve, or have drunkenness. I am looking for evening employment and am of good temper. I can faithfully order chambers, wash linens, and perform other reasonable domestic offices. I am also not very impertinent in curiosity. Please let me know if I am suitable.
God, he had thought to himself as he pressed send, why had he not spent more time in his English classes?
The answer, unfortunately, was football. Mostly football. Also girls.
And, once, an extremely ill-advised attempt to learn card tricks from a boy in his economics lecture instead of studying for a midterm.
Still. The email was gone now. There was nothing to be done about it.
He had expected no response. Instead, at eleven forty-three that night, his phone lit up.
From: Ricardo Leite
Subject: Re: Enquiry Regarding Domestic Position
Cristiano opened it, immediately sitting bolt upright in bed.
Dear Mr. Ronaldo,
Your letter hath reached me in good order, and I thank you for your candid account of your constitution and habits. I am pleased to learn that neither thievery nor drunkenness number among your usual pursuits.
Your willingness to undertake evening work is agreeable, as are your assurances regarding discretion and the proper ordering of chambers. Experience is not indispensable, provided the applicant be diligent and willing to learn.
If it be convenient, I should be glad to receive you at my residence this Thursday at the sixth hour after noon, that we might speak further concerning the position and determine whether the arrangement shall prove mutually suitable.
Pray confirm whether this hour finds you at liberty.
Yours faithfully,
Ricardo Leite
Cristiano read the email twice, then a third time.
The sixth hour after noon. Who the fuck wrote like this?
He opened a reply anyway.
Dear Mr. Leite,
That part, at least, he could manage. He stared at the blinking cursor.
Ricardo had written hath. Ricardo had written pray confirm whether this hour finds you at liberty. Cristiano could not simply answer yeah six works thanks. That would make him look like an idiot.
He straightened slightly against his pillow. Fine. He could do this.
Dear Mr. Leite,
I thank you greatly for receiving my enquiry in good order. I am also pleased that my constitution and habits are agreeable to you.
Cristiano paused. That sounded excellent. Maybe English classes had not been such a waste after all.
He continued.
Thursday at the sixth hour after noon finds me very much at liberty. I shall be glad to present myself to your residence and speak further of the employment. I am diligent and willing to learn, and I believe our arrangement shall be mutually suitable also.
Still good. He reread Ricardo's email, looking for more useful words to steal.
Cristiano added:
I pray this confirmation finds you well.
He frowned.
Was that a thing? Probably. People were always saying hope this email finds you well. This was basically the same thing, just older. He kept going.
I shall arrive faithfully at six and will not be late unless something unforeseen befalls me.
He stopped, quite pleased with befalls me—it was very good, extremely old. He was definitely getting the hang of this. Now he just needed to ask if he should bring anything.
Please advise if there is anything I should bring upon my person.
Nope, that sounded like a weapon. He deleted it.
Please advise if I should bring anything with myself.
Too normal. Deleted.
Pray advise whether any object is required of me upon arrival.
Cristiano stared at it. That sounded even worse. He deleted the entire sentence. Maybe Ricardo did not need him to bring anything.
Reading the draft from the beginning again, he realized it was missing a closing. Ricardo had written Yours faithfully, but copying that felt lazy; Cristiano wanted something equally formal. He thought for a moment, then typed:
I remain faithfully available,
Cristiano Ronaldo
He looked at it.
Nope.
I remain your faithful applicant,
Cristiano Ronaldo
Jesus Christ. Absolutely not.
Eventually he settled on:
Until Thursday, I remain,
Cristiano Ronaldo
He stared at the finished email, knowing something about it seemed wrong but unable to identify exactly what. Maybe it was simply too formal, but then again, Ricardo had said hath. Pressing send, he felt quite pleased with himself for several seconds before opening the message again. His satisfaction lasted approximately twelve seconds. Thursday at the sixth hour after noon finds me very much at liberty. What the fuck did that even mean? He put his phone facedown on the mattress, telling himself it was fine and that Ricardo would probably understand.
His phone vibrated less than five minutes later. Cristiano grabbed it to find a swift reply.
From: Ricardo Leite
Subject: Re: Re: Enquiry Regarding Domestic Position
Dear Mr. Ronaldo,
Thank you. Thursday at six shall suit perfectly.
You need not trouble yourself to imitate my manner of writing. Ordinary English will suffice.
Yours faithfully,
Ricardo Leite
Cristiano stared at the screen, then stared harder as his face grew hot. Imitate? He had not been imitating. He had been—well, fine, maybe a little. He opened another reply, quickly typing, Okay thank you see you Thursday. He hovered over the send button, then, out of sheer spite, added: I shall be there.
He sent it before he could reconsider, and Ricardo's reply came almost immediately: Excellent. Cristiano frowned at the word for several seconds, because somehow, without even hearing the man's voice, he could tell the bastard was laughing at him.
**
Cristiano takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders to shake off the nerves. He is a twenty-one-year-old college student who needs to pay for his textbooks and maybe, occasionally, afford a meal that doesn't come out of a microwave. He can handle eccentric. Eccentric usually pays well.
He steps up to the heavy double doors, reaches out, and lifts the brass lion’s head. He lets it drop twice. The sound echoes with a heavy, hollow thud that seems to vibrate right through the soles of his sneakers.
He waits. Ten seconds. Twenty. He’s just beginning to wonder if he should knock again, or perhaps look for a hidden doorbell, when the heavy wooden door swings inward without a single creak of a hinge.
The man standing in the doorway is not an elderly woman, and he is certainly not a frazzled businessman.
He looks to be around Cristiano’s age, maybe a few years older. He is tall, with dark, curling hair that frames a face so symmetrically striking it briefly short-circuits Cristiano’s brain. His skin is pale—strikingly so, like marble polished to a soft gleam—and his eyes are wide, dark, and intensely focused. He is wearing a charcoal turtleneck and dark trousers, which seems absolutely unhinged given that it is the middle of July and eighty degrees outside.
He is also, Cristiano realizes, the most handsome man Cristiano has ever seen in his life.
Not handsome in the normal way, either. Not football-player handsome or movie-star handsome. There is something almost offensive about this man's face, something too precise about the line of his nose and the curve of his mouth and the dark sweep of his eyelashes. Cristiano has the bizarre, immediate thought that if someone tried to draw a man this good-looking, everyone would complain that they had overdone it.
"Ah," the man says. His voice is velvet, quiet but carrying a strange, resonant cadence that Cristiano can't quite place. "You must be the applicant. Mr. Ronaldo, is it not?"
"Yeah," Cristiano says, his voice coming out a little rougher than he intended. He clears his throat. "Yes. I mean, yes, sir. I’m Cristiano. I, um, I’m here to visit Mr. Leite?"
The man's lips curve into a faint, polite smile. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, which are currently sweeping over Cristiano in a swift, calculating assessment. " You have found him. Though I would rather you call me Ricardo, if it pleases you. Come inside. The heat out there is quite... punishing."
He steps back, gesturing with a long, elegant hand.
Cristiano crosses the threshold, and the very first thing he notices is the temperature. It is freezing. Not just air-conditioned, but deep-earth cold, the kind of chill that sinks immediately into the marrow of your bones. He shivers, suddenly regretting the T-shirt.
Jesus Christ. Maybe the turtleneck makes sense after all.
“Do you always keep it this cold?” The question is out of Cristiano’s mouth before he can stop it.
Ricardo, who has just closed the door behind him, pauses with one hand still resting against the dark wood.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The house.” Cristiano rubs his palms over his arms. “It’s freezing.”
Ricardo glances around, as if checking the temperature for himself. “Is it truly?”
“Yes.”
A beat passes. Then Ricardo’s expression softens into something faintly apologetic. “Ah. Forgive my thoughtlessness. I had quite forgotten that most people do not find such a temperature agreeable.”
Cristiano blinks. Most people?
Ricardo’s gaze drops briefly to Cristiano’s bare arms, where goosebumps have already risen across his skin. Something about his expression shifts—faint concern, maybe, or guilt. “Allow me to raise it.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Cristiano rubs hard at his arms. “I’m okay.”
“You are shivering, Mr. Ronaldo.” Ricardo looks at him sincerely.
“I’m not shivering.”
Ricardo looks at him.
Cristiano stops rubbing his arms.
“Okay, like, just a little.”
“Then I shall turn it up.”
Cristiano watches Ricardo cross toward a small control panel on the wall and has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Apparently the emails had not been some strange stylistic choice after all. The man genuinely talks like that.
Which is—Well. Cristiano has no idea what that is.
Ricardo presses a few buttons, then turns back. “It may take a little while.”
“Thanks.”
“You are most welcome.” Ricardo pauses. “Whilst we wait, might I offer you some refreshment? Water, perhaps? Tea? Or something to eat, should you have an appetite?”
“Um, water would be fine.”
“Certainly. Please follow me to the kitchen.”
Ricardo turns, and Cristiano follows him down a narrow hall paneled in dark wood, past another closed sitting room and a staircase that disappears upward into shadow. The deeper they go into the house, the more Cristiano becomes aware of how quiet it is.
The kitchen, when they reach it, is almost aggressively modern compared to the rest of the house. Pale stone counters. Dark cabinets. Stainless-steel appliances. A wide island in the center with three stools tucked beneath it. Everything looks brand-new, expensive, and completely untouched.
Cristiano looks around. “Nice, um, nice kitchen.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you renovate?”
“No. It was thus when I took possession of the house.”
Ricardo steps forward and pulls open the door of an enormous, double-wide refrigerator. Cool air spills out, but it carries absolutely no scent—no lingering smell of onions, no faint tang of citrus, no earthy hint of leftovers. Nothing.
Cristiano, standing a few feet away, gets a clear view of the interior. He stops, his brain stuttering to a halt.
The fridge is completely packed, but it looks less like a place where an actual person stores their meals and more like a stock photograph titled Healthy Human Diet. There are perfect, symmetrical rows of bell peppers—red, yellow, green, repeated in exact order. There are bunches of kale and spinach sitting in pristine, unopened plastic bags that look fresh from the supermarket. Three identical cartons of almond milk stand facing perfectly forward on the middle shelf, flanked by exactly six flawless, unbruised apples.
It is aggressively vegetarian, but it’s completely devoid of life. There is no half-empty bottle of ketchup crusting over at the cap. There is no questionable Tupperware container pushed to the back. There isn’t even a jar of mustard, a rogue stick of butter, or a stray egg. It looks like a highly meticulous reconstruction of what someone thinks a human’s refrigerator should look like, based entirely on a quick skim of a fitness magazine.
Cristiano stares at the flawless alignment of the bell peppers, a faint furrow forming between his brows. He can’t cook much, but he knows kitchens. This kitchen has never seen a single dirty plate.
"Here we are," Ricardo says smoothly, entirely oblivious to Cristiano’s internal crisis. He reaches past a perfectly geometric stack of cucumbers to retrieve a sleek glass bottle of mineral water. He closes the heavy door with a soft click, cutting off the view of the bizarre produce display, and turns back, extending the bottle.
Cristiano takes it. As he does, his fingers briefly brush against Ricardo’s. The man’s skin is startlingly cold—noticeably colder than the chilled glass bottle itself—and smooth as polished stone.
"Thank you," Cristiano says, pulling his hand back quickly. He twists the cap off the water, taking a long, slow sip to buy himself time to process the sheer weirdness of it all. "You, uh. You eat a lot of vegetables, then?"
Ricardo blinks. His dark eyes are wide, placid, and completely unreadable. "Vegetables. Yes. They are... highly rich in essential vitamins. I consume them with great regularity."
“Oh, um, yeah, right.” Cristiano takes another drink. “That’s, um, very healthy.”
“I endeavour to be,” Ricardo says gently. “Please, take your time. When you are sufficiently refreshed, we may speak of your responsibilities.”
Cristiano nearly chokes on the water. Sufficiently refreshed. He lowers the bottle, clearing his throat. “I’m refreshed.”
“Very well.” Ricardo leads him toward a small breakfast table beside the windows—or, rather, beside what Cristiano assumes are windows, considering every inch of glass is hidden behind thick, dark curtains. Ricardo pulls out a chair for him.
Ricardo takes the seat opposite him, folding his hands neatly on the table. “So,” he begins, his velvety voice lowering slightly, somehow carrying even more clearly through the quiet room. “You do not thieve, and you do not have drunkenness.”
Cristiano’s face burns so hotly it entirely counteracts the freezing temperature of the house.
“A rare and commendable collection of virtues,” Ricardo continues solemnly, “for a university student.”
Cristiano stares at him. There is no smile on Ricardo’s face—not technically, anyway—but there is a distinct glimmer in his dark eyes. The bastard is absolutely making fun of him.
“Look, about the email—”
“I found it utterly charming,” Ricardo interrupts smoothly.
“Oh my God.”
“I mean that sincerely.”
“You don’t sound like that.”
At that, Ricardo’s mouth finally betrays him, the corners lifting upward. Cristiano points an accusing finger at him. “You told me I didn’t have to imitate you.”
Ricardo considers this, tilting his head. “Yes. Perhaps I was rather plain.”
Cristiano groans and tips his head back. In response, Ricardo laughs softly. It is the first time Cristiano has heard him properly laugh, and annoyingly, it is a very nice sound. It is warm and low, entirely at odds with the freezing house, the funeral clothes, and the refrigerator full of vegetables arranged like props in a school play.
“But truly,” Ricardo says, still smiling, “you need not be embarrassed. My own manner of speech is somewhat antiquated. I have been told so before.”
“Somewhat?”
“I was raised rather… traditionally.”
“Where?”
A brief pause stretches between them, and Cristiano immediately notices it. Ricardo’s expression barely changes, but something shutters behind his eyes. “Brazil.”
“Oh, cool.”
“I know.”
“Well,” Cristiano says, “I can clean. I’m organized. Very organized, actually. My roommate even says I’m borderline obsessive about laundry, so I can definitely wash linens. Whatever linens are.”
“Bedsheets. Towels. Tablecloths. Household fabrics.”
“So laundry.”
“Not precisely.”
“It sounds exactly like laundry.”
Ricardo looks faintly offended, which makes Cristiano grin. “All right. Linens.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Ricardo straightens slightly. “The duties are, in truth, quite straightforward. Dusting, vacuuming, laundering, the polishing of silver where required, and the occasional acceptance of deliveries.”
“I sleep during the day,” Ricardo continues, “hence my preference for evening attendance. You would ordinarily arrive at six and remain until ten. I understand, however, that your university obligations may occasionally require some adjustment.”
“Six to ten works.”
“Excellent. During those hours you may have free use of the common rooms and the upper floors, save for my private chambers.”
Cristiano takes another sip of water. “Private chambers.”
“My bedroom.”
“Right.”
“And my study, unless I have given you leave to enter.”
“Okay.”
“There is also the cellar.”
Of course there is. Cristiano looks around the enormous, freezing, curtain-covered house. “You have a cellar?”
“I do.”
“Is there an attic?”
Ricardo pauses. “Yes.”
Cristiano nods slowly. “Naturally.”
“I am uncertain why you say that as though it proves something.”
“It doesn’t.”
Ricardo watches him for a moment, while Cristiano drinks his water with exaggerated innocence.
“The cellar,” Ricardo continues, “is not forbidden to you. Indeed, you may occasionally have cause to enter it. I merely ask that you do not disturb anything beyond what your duties require.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“I assure you, it is not.”
“That is exactly what someone with an ominous cellar would say.”
Ricardo’s lips twitch, and Cristiano feels absurdly pleased with himself all over again.
“What about cooking?” he asks. “Because I can make pasta, and chicken, and eggs. Maybe fish if nobody expects too much. But that’s about where my skills end.”
“You will not be required to cook.”
The change in Ricardo is immediate. It isn’t dramatic, and if Cristiano had not been watching him so closely, he might have missed it entirely. The amusement disappears from his face, and his broad shoulders become very still.
“In fact,” Ricardo says, “I must ask that you do not concern yourself with my meals at all.”
Cristiano lowers the bottle. “Okay.”
“My diet is exceedingly particular.”
“Vegetarian particular?”
There is another fractional hesitation. “In part.”
Cristiano glances toward the refrigerator. Right. Obviously. Ricardo continues before he can ask further questions.
“I receive certain provisions separately. They will ordinarily arrive in sealed containers, and on occasion you may be asked to accept the delivery in my absence.”
“They are supplied by a specialist butcher,” Ricardo says. “You need not open the containers. Merely place them in the deep freezer in the cellar. I would prefer that they remain sealed.”
Cristiano looks at him, then toward the refrigerator full of lettuce and yogurt, and then back at Ricardo. “I thought you were vegetarian.”
Ricardo does not even blink. “I said my diet was particular.”
“No, you said you abstain from meat.”
“For ordinary consumption.”
Cristiano frowns. “What other kind of consumption is there?”
For perhaps the first time since Cristiano arrived, Ricardo appears to have no answer prepared. His gaze flicks briefly away. “Medical.”
Cristiano blinks. “Oh.”
“Yes.”
Immediately, Cristiano feels like an asshole. “Sorry.”
“There is no need to apologize.”
“Is it, like, a health thing?”
Ricardo hesitates just long enough to confirm that Cristiano has once again wandered directly into territory he is not meant to enter. “Something of that nature.”
“Right. Okay. I won’t ask.”
“Thank you.”
Cristiano takes another drink. He makes it perhaps four seconds.
“Are you a bodybuilder?”
Ricardo stares at him.
Cristiano gestures vaguely at his shoulders. “Or something? Because I’ve seen guys at the gym do those insane raw-meat diets. Liver, kidneys, all that shit. They swear it gives them testosterone or whatever.”
Ricardo continues staring. “What? …You believe I am a bodybuilder?”
“I don’t know.” Cristiano lets his eyes drop, briefly and entirely without permission, over the charcoal turtleneck stretched neatly across Ricardo’s chest. He looks away quickly. “You’re in good shape.”
A silence falls over the table. A longer silence. Ricardo’s gaze lowers, but not to Cristiano’s chest. Lower than that. To the side of his throat. Cristiano feels his pulse jump there for no reason he can explain. Ricardo’s eyes linger on it for perhaps half a second before snapping back to Cristiano’s face.
Something has changed in them. Not much, but just enough to make Cristiano suddenly, irrationally aware that the room is very quiet, that the curtains are shut, and that he is alone in an enormous house with a man he met twenty minutes ago.
Then Ricardo smiles. It is perfectly pleasant and perfectly composed. “Something like that,” he murmurs.
Cristiano lets out a breath he had not realized he was holding. “Cool.”
Ricardo folds his hands again. “There are only a few additional rules.”
“Here we go.”
“You must lock the door behind you when you depart.”
“Okay.”
“Do not invite anyone into the house without my permission.”
“Yeah, for sure.”
“Should you arrive before sunset, you must keep the curtains closed.”
Cristiano pauses. “...Oh, oksy?”
Ricardo ignores him. “You are never to open them without asking me first.”
“Any of them?”
“Any.”
“Why?”
“The furnishings are old.”
Cristiano looks around. “And?”
“Sunlight damages them.”
Cristiano thinks of the enormous dark-green curtains in the hall—the ones thick enough to stop a nuclear blast. “All of them?”
“Yes.”
“Every single piece of furniture?”
Ricardo’s expression remains perfectly serene. “They are exceedingly delicate.”
Cristiano looks at him for a long moment. “Right.”
He does not believe him. Not even a little. But twenty-one-year-old Cristiano Ronaldo has learned several important lessons about employment already, and one of them is that when a rich person wants to pay you an unreasonable amount of money to indulge an unreasonable preference, sometimes the most financially responsible answer is simply sure.
“Curtains stay closed.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything else?”
Ricardo considers. “Yes.” Of course. “If you should cut yourself while working—”
Cristiano waits. Ricardo’s face has gone strangely blank again.
“If I cut myself?”
“You must tell me.”
Cristiano frowns. “Why?”
“So that I may provide you with proper first aid.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
That is, actually, pretty reasonable. “Okay.”
“And you should leave the room until the wound is dressed.”
Cristiano blinks. “Leave what room?”
“Whichever room I am in.”
Silence stretches over the table. Cristiano slowly lowers the water bottle. “What?”
Ricardo hesitates. “I am,” he says carefully, “rather poor with blood.”
“So, like, hematophobia?” Cristiano asks, raising an eyebrow.
Ricardo seizes the term with a faint, almost imperceptible exhale of relief. “Yes. Precisely that. Hematophobia.”
Cristiano studies the man sitting across from him. Ricardo looks like an ancient statue brought to life—broad-shouldered, impossibly poised, and capable of snapping a baseball bat over his knee without breaking a sweat. The idea that he might legitimately swoon at the sight of a papercut is objectively hilarious. “Okay,” Cristiano says, fighting down a grin. “No bleeding in front of you. Got it. Do you, like, pass out?”
“It causes me... great distress,” Ricardo replies, his voice carefully controlled, his dark eyes momentarily fixing on the table before rising to meet Cristiano's. “My reaction can be quite severe.”
“Right. Well, I’ll try to keep all my blood inside my body,” Cristiano says brightly. “Seems like a good policy generally. Anything else? No garlic? No wooden stakes?”
Ricardo’s head snaps up. His dark eyes widen for a fraction of a second, something sharp and feral flashing in the depths of them, before his expression smooths back into that placid, unreadable mask. “I beg your pardon?”
“It was a joke,” Cristiano says, suddenly feeling as though he has stepped on an unseen landmine. “You know, because of the dark. And the thick curtains. And the pale skin.”
“Ah. A joke.” Ricardo’s broad shoulders relax a millimeter, though his gaze remains heavy. “Yes. I see. Very humorous.”
He says it with all the enthusiasm of a man reading a tax return. Cristiano decides it is probably best to wrap this up before he accidentally offends his prospective employer into rescinding the offer.
“So,” Cristiano says, setting his water bottle down on the pristine stone table and clapping his hands together once. “Six to ten in the evening. I clean the house, I wash the linens, I put the mystery butcher boxes in the cellar, and I make sure not to bleed on you. Do I have the job?”
Ricardo looks at him for a long, quiet moment. The heavy shadows of the room seem to press in closer around them, and for a second, Cristiano wonders if he has pushed too far with his flippancy. But then Ricardo’s lips curve into a genuine, striking smile that lights up the angular planes of his face.
“You have the job, Mr. Ronaldo,” Ricardo says softly. He stands up, unfolding his tall frame from the chair with that same unsettling, silent grace, and extends a long, pale hand. “I believe this arrangement will prove mutually suitable after all. Please start tomorrow. And for the pay, does sixty dollars one hour sound fine to you?”
Holy shit.
For perhaps the first time in his life, Cristiano Ronaldo is rendered completely speechless. Sixty dollars an hour. Sixty. He stares at Ricardo’s outstretched hand, then at that beautiful, perfectly composed face, then back at the hand, every strange thing about the house—the freezing air, the sealed curtains, the butcher deliveries, the blood problem, the fucking cellar—suddenly rearranging itself into a series of charming little eccentricities he is more than willing to tolerate.
“Tomorrow,” Cristiano says immediately, grabbing Ricardo’s ice-cold hand before the man can reconsider. “Six o’clock. Absolutely. I’ll be here.”