A big wooden door leads off the street. A cobbled walkway leads into a courtyard. In the middle is an old stone fountain and the flowing waters echo against the walls and make it sound grander than it is.

A large door opens inside and we are in a cool dark entrance hall that has a great big marble statue of a naked boy laying on his side. I stare at its erect penis that is tiny but evocative. “That is Gaddo,” he says, “by Torquato della Torre, a secret known only to the Santorelli family, so tell nobody.” He nods, even though I haven’t said anything, and he takes it for granted that I have understood. “Come,” he says, grabbing my hand. “My rooms are upstairs.”

We climb a terrazzo staircase, trodden by a thousand virgin boys, and worn down by their brave footsteps. “You must trust me,” he says.  I know nothing about the Santorelli family, and realise that he is very wealthy, and I don’t trust him, yet I still follow. 

Halfway up the staircase is a veranda that looks out over the rooftops. He stops and faces me, a shadow against the evening sun that is slipping behind the clock tower. “Do you think I am handsome?” he asks. I say that he is.

We climb higher, twisting steps that lead somewhere, until we can go no further. He opens a door and pulls me inside. “I am a Santorelli,” he boasts, “and I claim you as my own.” It is beautiful, poetic and fucking weird.

He tells me to take my shirt off, and when I do, I hear a thousand boys laughing at my pale skinny body.