Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Ginni
This is perfect. Absolutely, utterly perfect.
I microscopically adjust the lap tray one more time, making sure everything is positioned just so.
The white linen cloth drapes elegantly over the sides, the crystal wine glasses catch the candlelight like captured stars, and the spaghetti bolognese is plated with the kind of artistic precision that would make a Michelin-starred chef weep with envy.
Carlo is sitting up properly for the first time in days, his restraints loosened enough to allow him full use of his hands and arms. I know it’s a risk, that he could try something, but after this afternoon I think we’ve moved past that particular concern.
The chains are still there, still secure, but there’s enough slack now for him to eat like a civilized person instead of being fed like a child.
I miss the intimacy of feeding him, if I’m being honest. The way he would open his mouth for me, trusting and compliant, the soft sounds of appreciation he’d make when I got the flavors just right.
But this is different, special in its own way.
More like a real dinner date, the kind of romantic evening I’ve dreamed about for years.
The projector above us displays a perfect Parisian evening, complete with the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the distance and couples strolling hand in hand along the Seine.
The artificial starlight mingles with the glow from the dozen candles I’ve placed around the room, creating an atmosphere that’s pure romance.
If I close my eyes and listen carefully, I can almost hear accordion music drifting on the evening air.
Earlier today, Carlo had a breakthrough.
He admitted he was stupid for denying his love for me, and now we are having dinner in Paris.
Our honeymoon really is turning out to be spectacular.
I can’t wait to tell our grandchildren all about it every Christmas.
They will groan and pretend they think it’s boring, but secretly they will cherish it.
A tale of true love, to inspire them to find their own special person.
“This is incredible,” Carlo says, twirling another forkful of pasta with the kind of focused concentration that tells me he’s genuinely enjoying the meal. “The sauce is perfect. How long did it take you to make this?”
“About four hours,” I admit, unable to keep the pride out of my voice.
“I started the base this morning with real San Marzano tomatoes, then added the meat and let it simmer all afternoon. My nonna’s recipe, but I added my own touches.
A splash of aged balsamic, some fresh basil from the herb garden upstairs, and just a hint of dark chocolate to deepen the flavor. ”
Carlo makes an appreciative sound that goes straight to my heart. There’s something so satisfying about cooking for someone who truly appreciates the effort, who understands that food is love made visible and tangible.
“And this bread,” he continues, tearing off another piece of the crusty sourdough I baked yesterday. “Where did you learn to bake like this?”
“YouTube, mostly,” I laugh, delighted by his obvious enjoyment. “And a lot of trial and error. I wanted to be able to make everything you love from scratch, not just order it from restaurants or buy it pre-made. This loaf took me six attempts to get right, but I think it was worth it.”
“Definitely worth it.” He reaches for his wineglass, taking a sip of the Burgundy Pinot Noir I selected from the cellar. His expression shifts to something approaching awe as the complex flavors hit his palate. “Christ, this is excellent. This is really, really good wine. Where did you get this?”
I can’t help the mischievous smile that spreads across my face. “I stole it from my father’s wine cellar. It was in the safe, along with some other bottles he was saving for special occasions.”
Carlo goes completely still, his fork halfway to his mouth. Then he starts coughing, nearly choking on his spaghetti as my words sink in.
“Ginni!” he gasps when he finally catches his breath. “This could cost hundreds of thousands of pounds! Your father is going to notice it’s missing!”
I shrug. “You’re worth it, my love. Besides, Papa never drinks the really good stuff anyway. He just likes having it to show off to his business associates. Most of those bottles have been sitting there for years, gathering dust.”
“And if he does notice?” Carlo asks, though there’s something almost fond in his voice now, like he’s talking to a particularly reckless child who’s just admitted to stealing cookies.
“Then I’ll tell him I drank it to celebrate my new life with my soulmate,” I say simply, taking a delicate sip of the wine myself. The flavors are extraordinary, complex and layered with hints of cherry and tobacco and earth. “Some things are worth any amount of trouble, don’t you think?”
Carlo stares at me across the candlelit space between us, something soft and complicated flickering in his dark eyes.
For a moment, the basement fades away entirely.
The restraints, the circumstances that brought us here, the complicated reality of our situation all disappear.
There’s just us, sharing a perfect meal by candlelight, the warm glow making everything feel golden and magical.
This is what I’ve always wanted. Not the kidnapping, not the chains, just this.
A quiet evening with the man I love, talking and laughing over good food and excellent wine.
The kind of simple domestic happiness that other people take for granted but has always felt impossibly out of reach for someone like me.
But then something flickers at the edges of my vision. A flutter of uncertainty, like a candle flame disturbed by an unexpected breeze.
Carlo isn’t here willingly. He’s my captive, not my loving husband. This isn’t a romantic dinner date, it’s just another day in his captivity. The wine was stolen, the setting is artificial, and none of this is real no matter how desperately I want it to be.
The image stutters and jumps like a broken film reel.
One moment I see my loving husband, learning to accept the wonderful truth between us, his eyes soft with affection as he savors the meal I’ve prepared with such care.
The next moment I see my unwilling captive, playing along with my delusions because he has no choice, probably planning his escape the moment my guard drops.
Which one is real? Which Carlo am I looking at right now?
The uncertainty makes me dizzy, makes the candlelight seem too bright and the artificial Paris skyline feel oppressive rather than romantic. My hands start to shake, just slightly, and I have to set down my wine glass before I drop it.
Focus, I tell myself. Send the bad thoughts away. This is real. This is good. This is what we both want, even if he’s not quite ready to admit it yet.
But the doubts keep creeping in, insidious and persistent. What if I’m wrong? What if this afternoon’s breakthrough was just him telling me what I wanted to hear? What if he’s still planning to leave the moment he gets the chance?
The room starts to feel smaller, the walls pressing in despite the projected Parisian vista. My breathing becomes shallow, rapid, the kind of panicked gulping that never brings enough air to my lungs.
“Ginni?”
The voice seems to come from very far away, even though I know he’s sitting right across from me. I blink hard, trying to clear the static from my vision, trying to make sense of the concerned expression on Carlo’s face.
“Ginni, where did you go?”
There are fingers against my cheek, warm and gentle and completely unexpected. Carlo is leaning forward as much as his restraints allow, his hand cupping my face with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
“Nowhere,” I manage to say, though my voice sounds strange even to my own ears. “I’m right here.”
“You looked like you were somewhere else entirely,” he says softly, his thumb stroking across my cheekbone in a gesture so caring it makes tears prick at my eyes. “Somewhere not very nice.”
I lean into his touch without thinking, starved for this kind of gentle contact. No one has ever touched me just to comfort me. No one has ever cared enough to notice when I was struggling.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, though we both know it’s not entirely true. “Just thinking too much.”
“About what?”
How can I explain the war going on in my head?
The constant battle between hope and despair, between the fantasy I’ve constructed and the harsh reality that keeps trying to intrude?
How do I tell him that sometimes I can’t tell the difference between what’s real and what I desperately want to be real?
“Nothing important,” I lie, because the truth is too complicated, too frightening to put into words.
Carlo studies my face for a long moment, those dark eyes seeing far more than I’m comfortable with. But then he smiles, a genuine expression that transforms his entire face.
“I’m glad you’re back, Menace,” he says, with such casual affection that my heart nearly stops beating entirely.
Menace. He called me Menace. Not Ginni, not Giovanni, but something that is clearly an endearment.
Something that acknowledges all that I am while somehow making it sound fond rather than accusatory.
He’s referred to me as a little menace before, but this is different.
This is Carlo bestowing a pet name on me of his own free will.
I melt. Actually, physically melt into a puddle of pure happiness, my earlier anxiety evaporating like mist in sunlight. This is real. This moment, this man, this impossible tenderness in his voice when he looks at me.
“Menace?” I breathe, unable to keep the wonder out of my voice.
“That’s what you are,” he says with another one of those devastating grins. “An absolute menace.”
Carlo releases my face and returns to his meal, acting like he hasn’t just turned my entire world upside down with a single word. But I can see the satisfaction in his expression, the way his mouth curves slightly at the corners like he knows exactly what effect he’s having on me.
I finish my own pasta in a haze of contentment, barely tasting the food that I spent hours preparing.
All my attention is focused on Carlo, on the way the candlelight plays across his features, on the satisfied sounds he makes as he enjoys the meal, on the casual intimacy of sharing this space with him.
This is what happiness feels like, I realize. Not the manic energy that used to drive me, not the desperate planning and scheming and hoping. Just this quiet satisfaction, this sense of rightness, this feeling that everything in the world has finally aligned exactly as it should be.
When the last bite is gone and the wine glasses are empty, I practically bounce to my feet, energy and excitement coursing through me like electricity.
“Time to clean up!” I announce, already gathering plates and silverware with quick, efficient movements. “And then we’re having Netflix and chill.”
Carlo raises an eyebrow at my terminology, but there’s amusement in his expression rather than concern. “Netflix and chill?”
“Well, not Netflix exactly,” I admit, balancing the tray carefully as I prepare to take it to the kitchen. “But we have the projector and an extensive collection of romantic comedies. Same principle.”
I practically skip out of the room, my heart light and my spirits soaring. Everything feels possible now, everything feels right. Carlo called me his menace, and that single word has rewritten my entire understanding of what we could be together.
By the time I return, I’ve changed into a silk robe in the exact shade of blue as my eyes. It’s loose and flowing, designed to hint rather than reveal, elegant rather than obvious. The kind of thing that says I’m confident in my own skin without being desperate for attention.
I redirect the projector toward the wall facing the bed, scrolling through my carefully curated collection until I find the perfect film.
Something light and romantic, with just enough humor to keep things from getting too intense.
The kind of movie that’s designed to be background noise for more interesting activities.
“What are we watching?” Carlo asks, settling back against the pillows with obvious contentment.
“You’ll see,” I say mysteriously, pressing play before moving toward the bed with deliberate grace.
The opening credits begin to roll as I settle myself between Carlo’s spread legs, my back against his chest, his body warm and solid behind me. He lets out a soft grunt of surprise at being used as a backrest, but he doesn’t object or try to push me away. He simply accepts it.
I let out a sigh of deep satisfaction, feeling more relaxed and happy than I have in years. It seems as if a miracle is happening and for the first time ever, reality is catching up with my dreams. Soon, there will be no difference between the two.
And I’ll be the happiest boy in the world.