Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
Carlo
The wine glass hovers at my lips. I can smell something wrong. Not just the rich, complex notes of the Barolo, but something else underneath. Something chemical. Bitter.
My blood turns to ice.
“I don’t want to drink right now,” I say carefully as I put the glass back down. “Actually, I’m not feeling great. Think I might be coming down with something.”
Ginni’s face crumples with immediate concern. “Oh no! Are you feeling nauseous? Do you have a headache? I could get you some paracetamol, or maybe some ginger tea?”
“Just not hungry,” I say, eyeing the beautiful carbonara with new understanding. “Sorry, I know you worked hard on this.”
“But you have to eat something,” Ginni insists, his voice taking on that edge of desperation again. “You need to keep your strength up. Here, just a few bites?”
He lifts the fork toward my mouth, and I turn my head away. “Really, I can’t. My stomach is too unsettled.”
Ginni sets the fork down with exaggerated care, but I can see the frustration building in his eyes. The way his hands are starting to shake again, the manic brightness returning to his expression.
“Well, I suppose I should have some then,” he says with forced lightness, reaching for his own wineglass. “Can’t let it go to waste.”
I watch in horror as he takes several sips of the drugged wine, his throat working as he swallows. “Ginni, don’t...”
But he’s already setting the glass down, licking his lips with satisfaction. “Mmm, that really is extraordinary. Papa has excellent taste in wine, even if he never appreciates it properly.”
My heart is hammering against my ribs. How much did he drink? How long do I have before whatever he put in there takes effect? I need to keep him talking, keep him distracted from the fact that I haven’t touched anything.
“You’re right about your father,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. “He’s always been more about collecting than actually enjoying.”
“Exactly!” Ginni’s eyes light up, pleased that I understand. “He treats everything like a trophy. Wine, art, even his children. Things to be displayed when convenient and hidden when not.”
He takes another sip of wine, smaller this time, and I feel a flicker of hope. Maybe it won’t be enough. Maybe whatever dose he calculated was meant to be the full glass, and if I distract him, all will be well.
But I can already see something shifting in his posture. A looseness around his eyes, a slight delay in his movements. Whatever drugs he dissolved in that wine are working fast.
“I should tighten your cuffs, and the chains,” he says suddenly, though his words are slightly less crisp than usual. “Make sure you’re comfortable for dinner. And maybe I can help you drink, the way I used to. You always liked that.”
Fuck. If he tightens the restraints now, if he realizes how loose they’ve become, I’ll have no chance of getting free once the drugs take effect.
“Come here first,” I say softly, putting everything I have into making my voice gentle and loving. “I want to kiss you.”
Ginni’s face transforms with pure joy. “Really?”
“Really. You’ve gone to so much trouble for this beautiful meal. I want to show you how much I appreciate it.”
He moves the lap tray to the bedside table, and then practically floats closer to me, all thoughts of chains apparently forgotten in the face of romantic possibility. When he’s close enough to touch, I cup his face in my hands.
“You’re so beautiful,” I tell him, and the terrible thing is that it’s true. Even drugged, even planning our mutual destruction, even completely unhinged, he’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I kiss him with everything I have. Not the desperate lust of the last few days, but something gentler. Something that tastes like goodbye even though I can’t let myself think of it that way. His lips are soft and warm and taste like wine and sleeping pills and years of accumulated sadness.
Ginni melts against me, making that small sound of contentment that always goes straight to my heart. His hands come up to tangle in my hair, but the movement is sluggish now, uncoordinated.
I deepen the kiss, holding him close, feeling the exact moment when the drugs finally take hold. His body goes limp against mine, his breathing deepening into the rhythm of artificial sleep.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper against his hair, even though he can’t hear me anymore. “I’m so fucking sorry, Ginni.”
I ease him down onto the pillows, arranging him carefully so he looks peaceful rather than unconscious. His face in sleep is so young, so vulnerable, all the manic energy replaced by an innocence that makes my chest ache.
My hands are shaking as I check his pulse. Strong and steady, thank Cristo. Whatever dose he took, it wasn’t enough to be dangerous. Just enough to knock him out for a few hours.
The restraints slide off my wrists like they’re barely there, the cuffs so loose now that I could probably have escaped days ago if I’d been trying.
All those mornings when Ginni adjusted them with such care, making sure I was comfortable, never realizing he was giving me exactly what I needed to leave him.
It’s embarrassing how easy this is, now that I’ve decided to be free. Just how much of my time here was truly unwilling? It’s a question I already know is going to haunt me forever.
I stumble to the kitchen on unsteady legs, my body protesting after weeks of limited movement. The wine and food go straight down the disposal unit, evidence of Ginni’s beautiful, terrible plan disappearing down the drain in a swirl of red and cream.
A carefully folded note on the counter catches my attention. To Mama, Papa and Marco, is written across it in beautiful calligraphy on thick cream vellum.
I snatch it up, scrunch it up and throw it into the trash.
But it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough.
I need to leave him a note. Something that will stop him from doing anything stupid when he wakes up and finds me gone. Something that will keep him alive long enough for me to figure out how to save him properly.
I find the expensive stationery he used in the kitchen drawer, heavy cream paper with Ginni’s initials embossed in gold. Even his suicide note supplies are elegant.
My hand is shaking as I write.
My beautiful Menace, wait for me. I will come back for you. I promise. This isn’t goodbye. This is me saving us both. I love you. C
I fold the note carefully and place it where he’ll see it immediately when he wakes up. It’s still not enough, not nearly enough to explain everything I’m feeling, but it will have to do.
Clothes. I need clothes. I’ve been naked for so long I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to wear anything, but I can hardly escape through London like this.
The built-in wardrobe is where I expect it to be, taking up most of one wall of the spare bedroom. But when I open the doors, I freeze completely.
It’s full of men’s clothes. Beautiful, perfectly tailored men’s clothes in exactly my size.
Suits from Savile Row, casual wear from Italian designers, everything from formal dinner jackets to comfortable weekend clothes. All of it in my exact measurements, all of it clearly chosen with obsessive attention to style and ways to make me look good.
Back on my first day here, he said he was going to buy me new clothes, but this is extraordinary. How long has he been planning this? How much time did he spend quietly ordering clothes for me, building a wardrobe for the life he imagined we’d have together?
I grab the first things I find. Dark jeans that fit like they were made for me, a soft cashmere jumper in deep blue, expensive leather shoes that somehow manage to be exactly the right size. Even the socks and underwear are perfect, brands I prefer, cuts I find comfortable.
Everything fits flawlessly, because of course it does. Ginni has been studying me for years, cataloguing every detail of my preferences with the same obsessive precision he brings to everything else.
The clothes feel strange after weeks of nakedness, heavy and constricting, but also comforting in their familiarity. Like putting on armor before a battle.
I take one last look at Ginni, peaceful and beautiful in sleep, and something inside my chest tears in half. Leaving him like this feels like abandoning a wounded animal, like turning my back on someone who needs me more than he’s ever needed anyone.
But staying will kill us both. And I can’t save him if I’m dead.
The basement door is locked, but Ginni keeps the key on a hook just inside the kitchen. Of course he does. He never really expected me to make it this far, never imagined I’d actually try to leave.
The stairs feel endless, my legs weak from weeks of limited mobility. By the time I reach the main floor, I’m breathing hard and my heart is racing from more than just exertion.
I’m in the Torrini family home. The place where Ginni grew up, where he learned to hide himself away, where he was taught that love is something to be ashamed of. Every room I pass feels like a mausoleum, all expensive furniture and careful arrangements that speak of wealth but not warmth.
This is what shaped him. This cold, beautiful prison where appearances matter more than happiness, where a son can be hidden away in the basement like a dirty secret rather than loved for who he is.
The front door is solid wood with multiple locks, but none of them are engaged. Why would they be? The Torrinis assume their son will never try to leave.
London air hits my face like a blessing, cool and sharp and full of life. Real air, not the recycled atmosphere of the basement. Real light, not the artificial glow of projectors and screens.
I’ve escaped. After weeks of captivity, I’m finally free.
So why does it feel like I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life?
I walk quickly through Mayfair, keeping my head down, trying to blend in with the early evening foot traffic. Every step takes me further from Ginni, further from the basement that became both prison and sanctuary.
By the time I reach my own house, my legs are shaking with exhaustion and my chest is tight with something that feels suspiciously like grief. I fumble with the keycode lock, hands trembling as I let myself into my own home for the first time in weeks.
Everything is exactly as I left it. Mail piled on the hall table, bananas turning black on the kitchen counter, the faint smell of expensive cologne and leather that I associate with my old life.
It feels like walking into a museum. Like visiting the preserved home of someone who died a long time ago.
I sink down onto my sofa, still wearing Ginni’s perfectly chosen clothes, and try to process what just happened. I escaped. I’m home. I’m safe.
I saved both our lives.
So why do I feel like I’ve just destroyed something beautiful and irreplaceable?
Ginni will be waking up soon, if he hasn’t already. He’ll find my note and hopefully, hopefully it will be enough to keep him from doing anything desperate.
His parents will be arriving any minute now. They’ll go check on the son they are ashamed of. Find him either asleep or distraught. Whichever they find, they’ll conclude nothing has changed. Their child is still crazy. Still an embarrassment.
And here I am, safe in my own house, wearing clothes chosen by a boy who loved me enough to plan for a future that could never exist.
I should feel relieved. I should feel vindicated in my choice to leave.
Instead, I feel like I’ve just abandoned the only person who ever truly understood me. And despite everything he put me through, despite the drugs and the chains and the complete insanity of our situation, I find myself wondering if I made the right choice.
Because sitting here in my own home, surrounded by the trappings of my old life, I realize something that makes my chest tight with panic.
I miss him already.
I miss my beautiful, broken, dangerous menace. And I have no idea how I’m going to live without him.