Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
Carlo
The doorbell rings just as I’m pouring my third whisky of the evening. Or maybe fourth. I’ve lost count, which isn’t like me. Nothing about the last few days has been like me.
I check the security camera and see Dante standing on my doorstep, hands in the pockets of his expensive coat, dark eyes scanning the street with the automatic vigilance that makes him so good at what he does. And what he does is extract secrets from people who thought their secrets were safe.
Fuck.
I consider ignoring the bell, pretending I’m not home, but that would only make him more suspicious. Dante doesn’t make social calls. If he’s here, it’s because he’s noticed something. And when Dante notices something, he doesn’t let it go.
I open the door and try to arrange my face into something resembling normalcy. “Evening, Dante.”
“Carlo.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, and strides straight to my living room, his gaze immediately cataloguing details. The whisky glass on the table. The fact that I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes. The way I’m holding myself like someone trying not to fall apart.
“Drink?” I offer.
“Please.”
I pour him a whisky, noting the way his eyes track every movement. Dante sees everything. It’s what makes him invaluable and terrifying in equal measure.
“You look like shit,” he says without preamble, accepting the glass.
“Thanks for the pep talk.”
“I’m serious.” Dante settles into the armchair across from me, all fluid movement and predatory grace. “When’s the last time you slept? Properly, I mean. Not passed out drunk on your sofa.”
“I sleep fine.”
“Bullshit.” He takes a sip of whisky, never breaking eye contact. “You’ve got shadows under your eyes that weren’t there a week ago. You’re drinking alone on a Tuesday night. And you answered the door like you were expecting someone you owe money to.”
I force a laugh. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Is it?” Dante leans forward slightly, and I’m reminded why people are terrified of him.
It’s not just his reputation. It’s the way he looks at you like he can see straight through to your bones.
“Because from where I’m sitting, you look like a man with secrets. And secrets make people unpredictable.”
“Everyone has secrets, Dante.”
“Not like this.” His voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. “This is the kind of secret that changes people. The kind that eats at them from the inside until they make mistakes.”
My hand tightens on my glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” Dante’s dark eyes never leave my face. “Something happened. Something that’s got you spooked. Something you can’t talk about to anyone else.”
The accuracy of his assessment hits like a physical blow. I force myself to stay still, to keep my expression neutral, but I can feel sweat breaking out across my forehead.
“You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” Dante takes another sip, completely relaxed. “Because the Carlo I know doesn’t disappear for days without explanation. Doesn’t ignore calls from friends. Doesn’t drink himself into a stupor and call it a normal evening.”
Friends. Marco. Of course Dante would have heard about my radio silence, my complete withdrawal from normal social obligations. In our world, sudden changes in behavior are cause for concern. They usually mean someone’s either dead, compromised, or planning something stupid.
“I needed some time to myself,” I say carefully. “Clear my head, think about what I want.”
“And what do you want, Carlo?”
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implication.
What do I want? A basement bedroom with silk sheets and projected sunrises.
A beautiful boy who sings opera while he cooks.
A marriage that should have existed only in his imagination but felt more real than anything else in my life.
“The usual,” I lie. “Money, power, a peaceful retirement.”
Dante studies me for a long moment, and I have the unsettling feeling he can see right through the careful facade I’m trying to maintain.
This is why he’s so effective at what he does.
Not just the physical techniques, but this.
The ability to read people, to find their pressure points, to know exactly where to push.
“You know what I think?” he says finally.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“I think someone’s got under your skin. Someone you can’t have, or can’t keep, or can’t forget.” His voice is conversational, almost gentle. “And it’s driving you fucking crazy.”
The words hit so close to the truth that I actually flinch. Dante’s eyes narrow slightly, cataloguing my reaction like data in a file he’s building.
“That’s a hell of a theory,” I manage.
“Isn’t it?” He smiles, and there’s something almost sympathetic in his expression. “The thing about obsession, Carlo, is that it’s obvious to everyone except the person experiencing it. You think you’re hiding it, but you’re not.”
Obsession. The word sits between us like an accusation. Is that what this is? Have I become obsessed with someone who kidnapped me, drugged me, tried to kill us both in some romantic murder-suicide fantasy?
“I’m not obsessed with anyone.”
“No?” Dante tilts his head slightly. “Then why are you sitting here alone, drinking yourself stupid, looking like someone died? Why are you avoiding your friends? Why are you canceling all your social engagements and leaving all your business decisions to your underlings?”
Because I can’t stop thinking about him alone in that basement, or locked away in some uncaring institution, or worse. Because every quiet moment fills with memories of silk pajamas and gentle hands and the way he looked at me like I was something precious.
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“You’re many things, Carlo. Fine isn’t one of them.” Dante finishes his whisky and sets the glass down with deliberate care. “But here’s the thing about secrets. They have a way of coming out eventually. Usually at the worst possible moment, in the most damaging way.”
The threat isn’t explicit, but it’s there. Dante knows something’s wrong, and he won’t stop digging until he finds out what. And when he does...
“Is that a warning?”
“It’s advice,” Dante says, standing up with that same fluid grace. “From someone who’s seen what happens when good men get eaten alive by things they can’t control.”
He moves toward the door, then pauses, looking back at me with those dark, knowing eyes.
“Whatever it is, Carlo, deal with it. Before it deals with you.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me alone with my whisky and the terrible certainty that I’m not as good at hiding my feelings as I thought.
I drain my glass and immediately pour another, trying to wash away the taste of Dante’s too-accurate observations. Obsession. Secrets eating me alive. The uncomfortable truth that I’m not fine, haven’t been fine since the moment I walked out of that basement.
My phone buzzes with a text. For one ridiculous moment my heart races, thinking somehow it’s Ginni, or at least news about him.
But it’s Crystal, asking if she can come over.
Beautiful, uncomplicated Crystal, with her perfect smile and her simple expectations.
Exactly what I need to remind myself who I really am.
I text back yes without thinking it through.
Twenty minutes later, she’s at my door, looking absolutely stunning in a black dress that hugs every curve. Her blonde hair falls in perfect waves, her makeup flawless despite the late hour. She’s everything any reasonable man would want. Sophisticated, gorgeous, successful in her own right.
“Hey, stranger,” she says, stepping into my arms for a kiss. “I’ve missed you.”
I kiss her back automatically, my body going through the motions while my mind remains stubbornly elsewhere. Her lips are soft, her perfume expensive, her body warm against mine. Everything should feel perfect.
Instead, I feel nothing.
“Drink?” I offer, pulling away perhaps too quickly.
“Wine, if you have it.”
We walk to the living room and I pour her a glass of the Chablis she prefers, automatic hospitality for someone I should care about more than I do.
“You’ve been impossible to reach,” Crystal says, settling onto the sofa with practiced elegance. “I was starting to think you’d found someone else.”
Someone else. If only it were that simple.
“Just work,” I lie. “Big deal falling through, had to focus.”
She nods sympathetically, and we fall into the kind of easy conversation we’ve perfected over months of casual dating. Her job, mutual friends, plans for the weekend. Normal conversation between normal people living normal lives.
It should be comforting. Instead, it feels like speaking a foreign language I’ve forgotten how to use properly.
“Carlo,” Crystal says after a while, setting down her wineglass and moving closer. “Are you alright? You seem... distant tonight.”
Distant. That’s one way to put it. How do I explain that I’m here but not here, present in body but with my heart and mind trapped in a basement ten streets away?
“Sorry,” I say, forcing myself to focus on her face. “Just tired.”
“Maybe I can help with that,” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss me again.
This time the kiss is deeper, more insistent. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers working at the buttons of my shirt. Everything about her touch should feel good. Should remind me of pleasure, of connection, of all the reasons I enjoyed her company before.
Instead, all I can think about is how wrong it feels. How different her hands are from the ones that touched me with such reverence, such desperate tenderness. How her kiss tastes like nothing but wine and lipstick, not like sweetness and sleeping pills and years of accumulated longing.
I try to respond, try to lose myself in the familiar dance of seduction, but my body won’t cooperate. Every touch feels hollow. Every kiss feels like a betrayal. Like I’m breaking wedding vows I never meant to take.
“Stop,” I say suddenly, pulling away from her.
Crystal blinks in surprise, her hands still resting on my chest. “What’s wrong?”
Everything. Nothing. The fact that she’s not Ginni, will never be Ginni, can never make me feel the way he did with just a glance across a room.
“I can’t do this,” I say, standing up abruptly.
“Can’t do what?” Crystal’s voice is confused, hurt. “Carlo, what’s going on?”
“You should go.”
The words come out harsher than I intended, but I can’t take them back. Can’t explain that sitting here with her feels like cheating on someone who probably hates me. Can’t tell her that every moment I spend pretending to be normal feels like dying a little bit more.
“Excuse me?” Crystal’s confusion is giving way to anger, which is fair. I’m being an absolute bastard, and she doesn’t deserve it.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but I’m already moving toward the door, desperate to get her out of here before I say something even worse. “I just... I need to be alone right now.”
“Are you serious?” Crystal follows me, her heels clicking on the hardwood. “You invite me over, pour me wine, let me think we’re having a nice evening, and then just... what? Kick me out because you’ve decided you’d rather be alone?”
“Something like that.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her trying to understand what’s happening. Trying to figure out when the man she’s been casually dating turned into this hollow, distant stranger.
“There is someone else,” she says quietly. “Isn’t there?”
The question hits like a physical blow. Is there someone else? Is Ginni someone else when he’s probably locked away somewhere, when our marriage was never real, when everything between us was built on madness and desperation?
“No,” I lie.
“Bullshit.” Crystal’s voice is calm now, resigned. “I don’t know who she is, but whoever has you this twisted up... I hope she’s worth it.”
She grabs her purse and heads for the door, pausing only to look back at me with something that might be pity.
“For what it’s worth, Carlo, you look miserable. Whatever happened with this woman, maybe you should try talking to her instead of drinking yourself stupid and treating everyone else like garbage.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone in my perfectly appointed house that feels more like a mausoleum than a home.
I sink back onto the sofa and reach for the whisky bottle, but my hands are shaking too badly to pour properly. Because Crystal was right about everything. There is someone else. I am miserable. And I am treating everyone like garbage because I can’t admit what I really want.
I want Ginni. I want my beautiful, broken, dangerous menace. I want his voice in my ear and his hands on my skin and his absolute devotion wrapping around me like armor against the world.
I want the only person I can never have.
And sitting here in my empty house, surrounded by all the trappings of my old life, I finally understand what Dante saw so clearly.
I’m not fine. I’m not healing. I’m not moving on.
I’m obsessed. Completely, helplessly, destructively obsessed with someone who tried to kill us both rather than face the possibility of living without me.
And the worst part is that right now, in this moment, I almost understand why he felt that way.
Because living without him feels a hell of a lot like dying.