Chapter 30 Dante #2
I bite down on a rising wave of irritation. “Yes. I can’t talk now.”
“Get to the base once it’s over,” he says, hanging up before I can respond.
He could’ve texted that. One fucking sentence. That’s all.
I shove the thought aside, burying it somewhere deep, and slip the phone back into my pocket.
Ahead of me, Theodore tilts his head to the side, curling his fingers around Estella’s arm as if he has any claim to her.
She glances over her shoulder—just a flicker, careful not to give us away—before letting him lead her.
I’m already moving.
I trail them at a distance, close enough to intervene, far enough not to draw attention.
They peel away from the glittering ballroom and slip into a quieter artery of the mansion—a narrow service corridor that hums with the faint scent of lemon polish and worn leather.
A door releases with a soundless click, blending into the paneling beneath a gilded portrait.
It slides open with a soft pneumatic sigh, the kind reserved for secrets and staff, not guests.
A stairwell yawns downward. Cooler air rises from below, brushing against my skin with a metallic tang—copper, old coins, dusty files, the smell of the lives rich men keep locked underground.
The stone steps angle into shadow, wide but low-ceilinged, forcing anyone who descends to bow their head, as if paying reluctant reverence.
My footsteps echo hollowly on the slate.
Thin, recessed lights stripe the wall, throwing slanted amber pools along the descent, just enough to see shapes but not faces.
Above us, the party muffles into a muted thrum, like the house itself is swallowing the sound whole, letting it vibrate through the bones of the structure.
We pass a cavernous wine chamber, all exposed stone and arched ceilings.
Rows of rare bottles rest on custom racks, each cradled like a relic, labeled in copper tags that glint in the low light.
Theodore speaks to Estella in a tone soaked with boastfulness, offering her a tour, and she nods, humoring him, playing her role perfectly.
My hand stays in my pocket, fingers curled around the lethal drug.
But the corridor isn’t empty—staff members drift through occasionally, appearing and vanishing like ghosts, forcing me to stay patient and silent, slipping into the pockets of the walls so I won’t draw attention.
Tension grows in my shoulders, spreading swiftly through the rest of my body, especially when I’m forced to wait for them to pass.
There’s no room for mistakes down here.
We move past the Staff Kitchens—the beating heart behind the mansion’s polished facade—and Theodore walks her to the end of a hallway where the air grows denser, then pushes a door shaped like a heavy steel slab open.
The moment it swings inward, I glance behind to ensure no one is watching, then move fast, slipping inside just as it begins to close.
I catch it with my shoulder, the metal whispering against me instead of slamming.
Inside, Theodore stands with his back to me, oblivious. Estella waits in the center of the room, poised and ready, her eyes snapping to mine the second I enter.
Everything drops into place.
I close the distance in a few silent steps.
The needle sinks into the side of Theodore’s neck so fast he only has time for a single, sharp gasp.
His body jerks, then collapses forward, limbs buckling beneath him.
I catch him by the collar and lower him slowly to the floor, listening as his breath shudders once before stopping entirely.
“Good job,” Estella says, her voice edged with pride. She gives me that quick, knowing smirk before pacing the perimeter of the room.
“Thank you,” I say, motioning with my hand for her to follow. “It’s time we go. Come on, baby.”
She doesn’t even glance at me. Instead, she drifts deeper into the room, moving through an ordinary space at first glance—except for the fact that we’re underground.
“There’s something about this room,” she murmurs, her words dissolving into the quiet. She glides toward the small bookstand, her fingertips skating across the spines before pulling a few out. “He told me he was going to take me somewhere interesting.”
I part my lips to respond, but the moment she slides out a black book with a thin red band, a sound vibrates through the room. Silence pools around us for a heartbeat before another pulse cuts through the air, followed by the unmistakable groan of a mechanism coming to life.
Instinct takes control. I surge toward her and yank her back from the shelf, but she isn’t afraid. She looks fascinated. Her eyes brighten as the bookcase shifts outward, revealing a concealed door hidden behind it.
The passage beyond is narrow, pitch-black. So dark the walls disappear into a single void. No air moves, no draft—nothing. Which means this isn’t a corridor leading somewhere; it’s a chamber meant to stay hidden.
“We’re going in,” Estella declares, picking up on my hesitation before I even speak.
I’m not scared. Concerned, yes—because the man we killed will be discovered eventually, and it won’t take long for people to start searching for him. I worked with the cameras, but once they catch it, they’ll begin wandering around the mansion.
Still, I nod, stepping forward first. “If anything feels wrong, we leave,” I warn, my voice tightening under the weight of possibilities.
My brain is already painting scenarios—me stepping onto a hidden panel, a dozen spears shooting out of the walls like something out of a deranged aristocrat’s idea of entertainment.
Wouldn’t shock me. Rich people build all kinds of bullshit when normal luxury stops being enough. They’re bored almost the same way we are bored.
Crossing the threshold, I inhale sharply, bracing for the worst. I can practically feel Estella breathing against my back, her gaze darting everywhere, trying to solve the room before I can.
I take one more step, and suddenly, a motion sensor triggers, flooding the chamber with light.
“Fuck. Me,” Estella breathes behind me.
I blink hard, needing a moment to confirm I’m not imagining what I’m seeing.
The room is dimly lit by thin strips of red LED glowing like a horizon line along the ceiling.
The color washes over everything—leather, metal, the polished floor—dyeing it all in a deep, saturated crimson that feels less like interior design and more like a warning.
I walk farther in, analyzing every detail, struck by the profound silence. Temperature-controlled. Sterile in the way a private laboratory is sterile.
Rails run along the red-washed walls—brushed steel, polished so impeccably they catch every flicker of crimson light.
They’re arranged with the precision of someone who worships order.
Leather harnesses hang from them, not tossed or tangled, but folded and conditioned, their surfaces gleaming softly.
Some pieces are tucked into black velvet pouches, each labeled in discreet silver embossing.
The drawers beneath them sit unlocked, matte black handles disappearing into equally black furniture.
On the rails, imagination has endless fuel.
Handcuffs lined with different shades of fur, ropes in every thickness and length, whips, floggers—each item haloed by the red glow that bleeds across the room, casting them in a dangerous sheen like a warning whispered to anyone bold enough to step inside.
A massive bed dominates the center, draped in satin sheets, pillows, and blankets of slick, shadowy black. Around it, velvet couches and chairs mirror the same dark palette, arranged deliberately to frame the room like a private theater.
“This is a fucking pleasure room,” Estella says, brushing past me, sending a cool ripple across my shoulder.
She doesn’t stop moving—her eyes flit from object to object, never settling, hungry.
Her fingers drift over a leather mini-bench at the room’s core before she hooks one of the first drawers open. “God fucking damn it.”
A quiet laugh rises in my chest, one I swallow before it escapes.
I move closer, leaning near her shoulder as she lifts a pair of heart-shaped nipple clips, twirling them in her fingers. “Is that even… is it safe?”
“If the person putting them on you isn’t a fucking idiot, then yes,” I tell her. “They push sensitivity to its edge.”
Cautiously, she sets them down, then crosses to the opposite side of the room. Silk scarves for bondage, blindfolds folded with clinical care—she drags her fingertips over each item. When she bites her bottom lip, my cock stirs in my pants. I already know the thoughts crowding her mind.
But I hold my tongue, letting her move freely. She touches everything, plucking the drawers open, skimming shelves, tracing shapes, her questions spilling out in a soft, breathy stream laced with intrigue and a hint of caution.
“These remind me of that anti-stress toy,” she says, rolling two love balls in her palm. “The one where you push one ball, and it disrupts the others, so you can just watch them and calm down.”
I laugh quietly. “Yes, I know, baby. Do you know what these are for?”
She studies them, brow pinched in thought. “Probably for… stimulating something?”
“We can put them inside you,” I murmur. She stiffens slightly, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips. “And I can control exactly what you feel—however I want.”
Her fingers slowly release the balls, setting them down as she lifts her hand to scratch at the back of her neck.
“You always crave control,” she says softly, turning to face me fully.
Her fingers rise, grazing my beard as she examines me with startling scrutiny.
“Did you ever let someone else take that control?”
My inhale falters, the breath trembling in my chest. “When we were in the hotel, yes. I allowed—”
“No, Dante,” she cuts in. “That was a hiccup. And you weren’t pleased with how you felt afterward.”