Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Carlo
Marriage.
The word keeps echoing in my head like a curse, bouncing around my skull until I think I might actually lose my mind.
Giovanni Torrini intends to marry me. Tomorrow.
He’s talking about booking a celebrant, planning a ceremony, like this is something normal people do instead of the ravings of a completely unhinged lunatic.
I watch in mounting horror as he flits around the room, pulling dress after dress from his wardrobe with the excited energy of someone planning the social event of the season. Not someone who’s just announced his intention to force a kidnapped man into marriage.
“This is not happening,” I mutter under my breath, testing the restraints for the hundredth time. The metal bites into my wrists, as unforgiving as ever. “This is absolutely not fucking happening.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. Everything that’s happened so far has been impossible, insane, completely beyond the realm of normal human behavior. And yet here I am, chained to a bed in a basement while a beautiful psychopath plans our wedding.
How the fuck did my life become this nightmare?
Three days ago, I was Carlo Benedetti. Respected capo.
Right hand to Dario Ajello. Owner of the most successful nightclub in London.
Men crossed the street to avoid me. People whispered my name with a mixture of fear and respect.
I had power, influence, control over every aspect of my carefully ordered existence.
Now I’m a captive audience to a deranged fashion show, watching my best friend’s little brother try on wedding dresses while he chatters about flower arrangements and guest lists.
And there are so many dresses. Too many.
This isn’t something he just thought of today.
The sheer volume of white silk and lace hanging in his wardrobe tells a story I don’t want to understand.
Full ballgowns with cathedral trains, sleek modern sheaths, traditional gowns with intricate beading…
enough options for a dozen different weddings.
How long has he been buying these? How long has he been standing in front of this mirror, trying them on, imagining our wedding day? The thought makes my skin crawl and my pulse race in ways I don’t want to examine.
“What do you think of this one?” Ginni asks, twirling in front of the full-length mirror in a creation that’s more suggestion than actual clothing.
The white lace clings, nearly see-through, to every curve of his body, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, all the way down to more than half-way past his hips, where it then flares out into a beautiful skirt.
And the way it moves as he spins makes my mouth go dry despite my terror.
He looks fucking incredible. Like something from a wet dream, all pale skin and sharp angles and delicate beauty that shouldn’t exist in the real world. The dress transforms him into something ethereal, otherworldly, and I hate how my body responds to the sight of him.
He’s a man. A very young man. My best friend’s little brother. It doesn’t matter how breathtakingly beautiful he is. The fact that he is a femboy doesn’t excuse me at all. I simply should look at him and feel nothing but brotherly.
“It’s...” I start, then clear my throat when my voice comes out as a croak. “It’s very white.”
As much as I’m still trying to cling onto my denial, I can’t escape the truth. My feelings towards Ginni are in no way brotherly. And haven’t been for a while.
“Too racy for a church wedding,” he decides, completely missing the strangled quality of my voice. “Even though we’re not technically having a church wedding. I want something that says pure and innocent.”
Pure and innocent. The boy who drugged me, stripped me, and chained me to his bed is worried about looking innocent on our wedding day.
I test the restraints again, more frantically this time.
The handcuffs are solid metal, police grade, attached to a bed frame that’s been bolted to the floor.
The chains now have enough give to let me sit up, but not enough to reach anything useful.
No weapons within range, no tools, no way to get leverage on the cuffs.
How long have I been down here? Two days? Three? Time has become meaningless in this windowless basement, marked only by Ginni’s increasingly deranged behavior and his casual discussions of our future together.
By now, people must know I’m missing. Dario will have noticed my absence, he will be asking questions. But Ginni was right about one thing. Everyone will think I’m taking time off after the Petrov situation. It could be weeks before anyone realizes something is actually wrong.
Weeks of this. Weeks of being fed and bathed and treated like some kind of prize pet while Ginni plans our domestic future.
“Or maybe this one?” Ginni has changed into something more traditional, a full ballgown with a sweeping skirt and modest neckline that somehow makes him look even more beautiful than the scandalous number he just discarded.
The white silk catches the candlelight, making him glow like something divine.
His dark hair falls in soft waves around his face, and his blue eyes are bright with excitement and happiness.
He looks like a painting come to life, like something that should be hanging in the Louvre rather than standing in a basement planning a forced marriage.
My chest tightens with something that definitely isn’t attraction. Can’t be attraction. I’m not gay, and even if I were, this isn’t romance. This is kidnapping. This is insanity.
But watching him move in that dress, seeing the pure joy on his face as he imagines our wedding day, I feel something crack inside my carefully constructed defenses.
Some part of me that’s been locked away for years, buried under responsibility and reputation and the need to be what everyone expects me to be.
“What about the guest list?” Ginni continues, apparently taking my silence as approval.
“I was thinking small and intimate for tomorrow’s ceremony.
Just us and the celebrant online. But then later, when you’re more comfortable with everything, we could have a proper celebration.
A big church wedding with all our friends and family. ”
The way he says it, so casually, like he’s planning a dinner party instead of discussing a fantasy that will never happen, makes my blood run cold.
He’s not just talking about tomorrow’s insane online ceremony.
He’s planning a future where I’m his husband, where we have a social circle that accepts us as a married couple, where this nightmare becomes our reality.
“Dario and Molly would love to be there,” he continues dreamily. “And Nicolo and Liam, of course. Oh, and Marco will want to give me away, won’t he? Though he might need some time to adjust to having you as a brother-in-law.”
The casual way he mentions Marco makes my blood pressure spike. My best friend. The man who’s trusted me with his family, who’s considered me a brother for more than half our lives. What’s he going to think when he finds out about this? What’s he going to do when he discovers the truth?
Because that’s what everyone will think, isn’t it? That I seduced Giovanni, that I took advantage of his obvious mental instability to get what I wanted. No one will believe the truth, that a twenty-one-year-old femboy overpowered a seasoned capo and forced him into this situation.
My reputation will be destroyed. Everything I’ve built, every relationship I’ve cultivated, every ounce of respect I’ve earned, all of it will disappear the moment people find out about this.
Wait. Online ceremony. Tomorrow. With a celebrant.
“Ginni,” I say carefully, trying to keep my voice steady. “This online wedding... it’s not going to be legally binding, is it? I mean, it’s just ceremonial, right?”
He pauses in his twirling, giving me a look that’s part confusion, part pity. “Of course it’s going to be legal, silly. I’ve done all the research. The celebrant is registered, the paperwork is ready to be filed. We’ll be properly married by tomorrow evening.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Legally married. To Giovanni Torrini. There will be documentation, records, proof that I participated in this insanity.
Even if I escape, even if I somehow get out of this basement, I’ll be married to him. Legally bound to the most unstable member of the Torrini family. The scandal alone will destroy me, but the legal complications...
“You can’t be serious,” I whisper.
“Of course I’m serious,” Ginni says, looking genuinely hurt by my doubt. “This isn’t some game, Carlo. This is our wedding we’re talking about. The most important day of our lives.”
He moves to another dress, this one with intricate beading that catches the light like stars. “And for the honeymoon, I was thinking somewhere tropical. The Maldives, maybe, or Bali. Somewhere private where we can really get to know each other as husband and wife.”
Husband and wife. He said those words with pure conviction. He’s not just talking about a fake ceremony to satisfy some deranged fantasy. He genuinely believes this is going to happen. Genuinely thinks that tomorrow he’ll put on one of these dresses and marry me, and we’ll live happily ever after.
The collection of wedding dresses suddenly takes on even more of a sinister meaning. I know this isn’t recent planning. And these gowns are expensive, designer pieces that would have taken months to acquire. Some look like they’ve been tried on repeatedly, the fabric slightly worn from handling.
Cristo. Just how long has he been fantasizing about this? How many nights has he stood in front of this mirror, imagining himself as my bride? The obsession runs deeper than I thought, rooted in years of planning and preparation.
“I’ve already found the perfect celebrant online,” he continues cheerfully, adjusting the beaded dress so it falls perfectly around his ankles. “She does virtual ceremonies, very discreet, perfect for unconventional situations. Five-star reviews, completely professional.”
I pull against the restraints with renewed desperation, not caring that the metal cuts into my wrists. The pain is better than this creeping sense of inevitability, better than the way part of me is starting to accept that maybe this is just my life now.
“The flowers will have to be white, obviously,” Ginni babbles on, completely oblivious to my growing panic.
“Roses, maybe, or peonies if I can get them on short notice. And candles everywhere, just like tonight. Oh, and we’ll need someone to take photos!
I want to document every moment of our special day. ”
I have no fucking clue how he is going to bring a photographer to his basement boudoir and get them to ignore the fact I’m an unwilling prisoner. But this is Ginni. He will find a way.
There are going to be photographs. Evidence. Permanent proof of whatever ceremony he’s planning to put me through. Even if I escape eventually, even if I find a way out of this nightmare, there will be photographs of Carlo Benedetti participating in a marriage ceremony with Giovanni Torrini.
“Later, we can have a proper reception,” he continues, lost in his fantasy. “Maybe at the Savoy, or somewhere equally elegant. All our friends dressed in their finest, celebrating our love. Dancing until dawn, just like in the movies.”
The easy way he switches between tomorrow’s basement ceremony and some impossible future celebration makes my skin crawl. He can’t distinguish between what’s real and what’s fantasy, between what’s possible and what’s completely delusional.
“I need to get out of here,” I whisper, the words barely audible even to myself. “I need to get out of here right fucking now.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s impossible. The basement is soundproofed. The restraints are professional grade. Ginni has planned this too well, thought of too many contingencies.
And the worst part, the thing that makes me want to scream until my throat is raw, is that he looks absolutely radiant in every single dress. Like a fairy tale princess, like something from a dream, like the kind of beautiful creature that men go to war over.
“This is the one,” he announces suddenly, stopping in front of the mirror in the beaded gown. “This is perfect. Classic but not boring, elegant but not stuffy. You love it, don’t you? I can tell by the way you’re looking at me.”
The way I’m looking at him. Like a starving man looking at a feast. Like someone drowning in sight of salvation. Like a man watching his own destruction and finding it beautiful.
“Ginni,” I start, my voice hoarse with desperation. “We can’t get married. This isn’t... people don’t just...”
“Of course we can,” he interrupts, his voice bright with certainty. “Everything’s arranged. Tomorrow afternoon, two o’clock sharp. Our new life begins.”
And looking at him standing there in white silk and pearls, surrounded by enough wedding dresses to stock a bridal boutique, glowing with years of accumulated fantasy and absolute certainty, I realize with crystal clarity that Giovanni Torrini isn’t going to let me leave this basement unless I’m his husband.
But the fairy tale wedding he’s planning isn’t the beginning of our happily ever after.
It’s the end of my life as I know it.