Chapter 17 #2
“You’re thinking about earlier,” Ginni observes with obvious satisfaction, his hands now working on my calves and thighs with methodical precision. “I can tell by the way your breathing changed. And your pulse rate increased.”
Heat floods my face, though he can’t see it with me lying face-down. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Because I pay attention to everything about you,” he replies simply, his hands working the oil into my legs with possessive thoroughness.
“Your breathing patterns, your heart rate, the way your muscles respond to different stimuli, how your body language changes with different emotions. I’ve been studying you for years, remember?
I know you better than you know yourself in some ways. ”
It should be unsettling, this level of observation and analysis. But instead, it’s oddly comforting. To be so thoroughly known, so completely understood, even in ways I don’t understand myself.
I let myself sink into the sensation, floating in a haze of complete relaxation. The artificial starlight from the projector, the scent of expensive oils, the skilled hands working away tension I didn’t know I was holding.
Being abducted is turning out to be a much better experience than I anticipated.
The thought should horrify me, but I’m too relaxed to care. Too comfortable, too well-cared for, too thoroughly seduced by this beautiful boy’s devoted attention.
Maybe this is what Stockholm syndrome feels like. Or maybe it’s just what happens when someone loves you with the kind of obsessive intensity that Ginni brings to everything he does.
Either way, I’m not sure I want it to stop.
Iwake to the sound of whimpering, soft and distressed in the artificial darkness of the basement. For a moment, I’m disoriented, unsure what roused me from the deep, dreamless sleep that’s become my norm since Ginni started his devoted care routine.
Then I feel the movement against my shoulder, small tremors running through the body curled against me. Ginni is using my chest as a pillow, just as he has every night since my abduction began, but something’s wrong.
Another whimper escapes him, followed by a soft, broken sound that might be a sob. His breathing is rapid and shallow, panic breathing.
At first, I think he might be having some kind of erotic dream, reliving our afternoon activities. But as I listen more carefully, the sounds aren’t pleasure. They’re fear. Pain.
He’s having a nightmare.
Guilt crashes over me like ice water, sudden and overwhelming.
Did I push him too far earlier? He was inexperienced when this all started, a virgin despite his seductive confidence and apparent knowledge.
What if I was too demanding, too rough? What if I hurt him in ways I don’t understand, ways that are only now manifesting in his dreams?
The boy gave me his virginity on what he considers our wedding night, trusted me with something precious and irreplaceable.
What if I damaged him in my selfishness? What if in my desire for revenge, my need to soothe my humiliation, I went too far?
I carefully shift my shoulder, the movement gentle but enough to rouse him from whatever dark place his mind has gone.
He wakes with a start and a sob, immediately clinging to me with desperate strength. His whole body is trembling, and I can feel wetness against my skin where his tears have leaked onto me. He’s shaking like a leaf, small and vulnerable and utterly heartbreaking.
“I’m so glad you’re finally here,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion and relief. “It’s so nice not to wake up alone.”
The words slice into me, eviscerating my heart. How many nights has he spent down here in this beautiful basement prison, waking from nightmares with no one to comfort him?
My chest aches at the thought of it. My poor sweet, little Ginni. How could I ever have been angry at him? I’m ashamed of myself.
“Ginni, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” I start, the endearment slipping out without conscious thought. “If I pushed you too far today, if I hurt you...”
“No,” he interrupts, his voice fierce despite the tremor running through it. “No, you didn’t hurt me. I loved every second of what we did. I loved letting you take control.”
He’s still shaking, still clinging to me like I’m his anchor in a storm. “My nightmare was about Camp,” he whispers.
“What camp?” I ask, even though something cold is already settling in my stomach, weighing down any relief I might have felt at not being the cause of his night terrors.
“Conversion camp.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Conversion therapy. The kind of barbaric practice that’s been banned in civilized countries, the psychological torture that masquerades as treatment.
“Your family put you in conversion therapy?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
I feel him nod against my shoulder, the movement small and defeated. “After I told Marco I was in love with you.”
Guilt overwhelms me, a crushing weight that makes it hard to breathe. This is my fault. Not directly, not intentionally, but my existence in their lives. Ginni’s feelings for me led to this horror being visited on him.
Everything suddenly makes terrible sense. The obsession, the careful planning, the complete disconnect from normal social boundaries. An innocent teenage crush twisted into something dangerous by trauma and abuse, left to fester in isolation for years.
“When was this?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know. “How did I not know about it?”
“The summer I turned sixteen,” Ginni replies, and I can hear the indignation creeping into his voice despite his distress. “I didn’t need to go to summer school. There was nothing wrong with my grades. I had straight A’s.”
Even now, even recounting this horror, he’s offended by the cover story they used. The slander against his academic achievement. It’s so quintessentially Ginni that I feel my heart crack a little more.
Of course his grades were perfect. This brilliant, beautiful boy who can solve my business problems in seconds, who speaks multiple languages, who’s mastered everything from blade maintenance to massage therapy. The idea of him needing remedial education is laughable.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” I say, the words feeling inadequate but necessary. “They shouldn’t have done that to you. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being gay, or feminine, or exactly who you are.”
He doesn’t respond, just makes a small sniffling sound that breaks what’s left of my heart.
Ginni shouldn’t ever need to cry. Ginni should never feel this sad. He is incredible and strong. Clever and cunning. And I’m so proud of him. After everything his family has done to him, he is still unashamedly his glorious self.
Oh god. Marco knew. Marco played a part in this.
Marco, my oldest friend, the man I’ve trusted with my life countless times. The man who knew his little brother was in conversion therapy and never said a word. Never asked for help, never mentioned that his family was torturing a sixteen-year-old boy for the crime of having feelings.
Rage builds in my chest, cold and calculating. Not the hot fury of the moment, but the kind of anger that plans and waits and never forgets.
Two decisions crystalize in my mind with perfect clarity.
First, I’m getting Ginni away from his family. I don’t know how yet, don’t know where, but I’m not letting him go back to people who would do this to him. He needs safety, protection, people who will love him exactly as he is.
And second, Marco is dead to me. Friendship, loyalty, shared history… none of it matters anymore. He participated in the destruction of his own brother, and I will never forgive him for that.
“Sleep now,” I whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Ginni’s head. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
I mean it. Truly, utterly and completely. I’m a mafia man, a capo. My word is a vow. My word is law.
Ginni is safe. With me, he’s safe.
And I’m going to make sure it stays that way.