Chapter 35 Caligula
CALIGULA
Damiano pauses with the fork at his mouth. “What?”
“You weren’t the only one bidding on me, Dami. The Russian in the front row—I’m pretty sure he’s called Grisha—”
“That Bratva fucker?”
“Yes. He was very interested. And there were others, too, a lot of other people with a vested interest in making sure my downfall was complete.”
He puts the forkful down in the bowl uneaten. “You think I can stroll up to Daniel fucking King and demand the guest list for that night? He ain’t no Tony Stuccio, kid. He’s a little tougher than that.”
“I think you could handle him.” He blinks at me. “But we should try diplomacy first. I got the feeling Grisha goes there a lot. Jesse told me he likes to watch more than participate—he’s a voyeur. You could make friends. Drink with him. Get him to loosen his tongue.”
“I’m not drinking with some pervert fucking Bratva. And I’m not going back to the Obelisk, not with you in tow.”
“It’s our only option right now.”
“No.”
“Dami—”
He grabs my throat, just like he used to do all the time right after he bought me. “If you’re looking for an escape by selling yourself to this Grisha instead, you got another thing coming.”
I don’t fight. Don’t even flinch. I let him stay there, hand on my throat, until the fire dies down in his eyes a little. “I’m not looking for a new owner, Dami. I’m just looking for answers. Like you.”
He drops his hand. “Jumping out a window into a dumpster wasn’t a good idea. Going back to the Obelisk? That’s unbelievably stupid.”
“Then tell me your brilliant idea instead. Tell me where we’ll find our next lead.”
He’s silent, eating a few mouthfuls of the food sullenly. “It’d be like throwing chum in the water, taking you back in there with all those sharks,” he says at last. “And there’s every chance we wouldn’t leave alive if the Bratva are the ones hunting you.”
“But you’ll protect me, Dami,” I say as sweetly as I can. “You always do.”
I can see he’s wavering. I wait patiently.
“If we do this,” he says at last. “If we do this, we need to convince them we’re just there to enjoy the nightlife. You get me? If they think for one second we’re there for intel—”
“I will perform my role as chastened slave, Dami. Easily done.”
He snorts. “That Clemenza ego of yours is visible from space, golden boy. Did you know that? Nah. It’ll never work. You just can’t keep yourself from talking back.”
He’s nearly there. He just needs one more push. “There’s an easy way to tame my ego.” I lean in toward him, just a little. “You cage me again. And use the plug.”
His eyes travel over my face, my chest, hungry and dark. “Yeah,” he says roughly. “That might just do it.”
“Then let’s go.” I slide out of the bed.
Once again, the fork doesn’t make it to his mouth. “Huh?”
“We should go. Now. Tonight,” I go on, getting more insistent as I see him balk. “Because if Uncle Tony gets the word out—”
“Shit.” He throws his fork back in the bowl and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Everyone’ll clam up tighter than your asshole.”
I laugh. Mostly from surprise.
“Speaking of which,” he goes on, “if I’m gonna shove that golden dildo back in your ass, you should clean out your insides first.”
I have a very unpleasant flashback to my night at the Obelisk, to the water flooding into my gut and then flooding back out…
“I haven’t eaten since this morning,” I tell him quickly. “It’ll be fine.”
He looks at me, and for a moment I see him contemplating doing what he threatened just before, and pouring a protein shake down my throat.
Then he shrugs. “We’ll need the lube.”
It’s a singularly unpleasant experience to be leaning over a sink and staring at myself in the mirror while Damiano Orsini fingers my asshole, just like the first night he brought me home.
Unpleasant not because it hurts—it doesn’t, at all; in fact it feels good—but because he’s so clinical about it.
But when he turns away to get the butt plug, I see something that makes it more bearable.
He’s hard. He likes this. Or his body does, anyway. That’s good to know.
Because my body likes it, too.
He already put the cage on me before he ordered me to lean over, and I start filling it out more firmly as he positions the plug at my hole, the tip pressing in.
His eyes stray up to my face, and he watches my reaction as the cool metal breaches me, the slight flush that spreads over my cheeks, the way I suck in a breath.
Surely he doesn’t need to go this slowly, or twist it around, or pump it maddeningly in and out, a little deeper each time…
“Come on,” he says softly. “Open up for it, golden boy.”
In the mirror, my lips part, my shoulders drop their tension, and I keep my eyes on his as the plug slides home.
“There you go,” he says. “All filled up.” He steps back and motions me to stand, which I do, swaying a little as I adjust to the foreign sensation of having something inside me again. “I got that cloak thing they sent you with. That’ll do for clothes. As for shoes…”
“I’ll go barefoot,” I tell him. I’m feeling a little hazy, my voice sounding far away. “Just like I was when you bought me, Dami.”
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Just like when I bought you.”
This time my entrance to the Obelisk is much more grand than sneaking down a piss-stinking alley to a back door.
Vito drives us down into the underground parking lot, right up to the members’ entrance, gets out, and opens the car door for us.
I’m relieved that he looks straight ahead, not even acknowledging me as I get out of the car. I think it’s respect.
I think it’s respect.
Even if not, I appreciate him not staring at me.
I have the gold cloak pulled tight around me against the cold, but it must be pretty obvious I’m naked underneath.
And I’m grateful that Dami doesn’t leave me standing there barefoot on freezing cement for long, either.
As in the back alley entrance, there’s a heavy, black steel door, but the obelisk carved into this one is much larger.
Dami buzzes the intercom, gives his membership number when a disembodied voice demands it, and looks up at the camera situated above the door.
The door slides open and he pushes me through onto thick red carpet that gives my frozen toes some relief.
Inside, the reception area looks like any high-end members’ club in the city.
Soft classical music plays over the speakers, and the lighting is low and warm, a few spotlights over the reception desk.
Dark walnut paneling lines the walls, punctuated by tall niches displaying Egyptian antiquities, or very convincing reproductions.
A few black velvet loveseats are arranged for waiting guests, though nobody’s waiting. The place smells faintly of incense.
“Mr. Orsini,” says the man at reception. He’s mid-twenties maybe, with pale hair slicked back from a beautiful, feline face. “How lovely to see you again. This is your guest for the night?”
“He’s not a guest. I bought him here at auction a couple of weeks back.”
The blond inclines his head with an understanding smile. “I see. Please go on through.”
Dami’s hand closes around the back of my neck and he steers me toward one of several doors.
I try to remember to keep my eyes downcast, but it’s hard not to stare around as we enter the next area.
It’s bigger than I expected, but wide rather than spacious.
The ceilings are still low, and the lighting comes only from the walls or floor lamps.
The color scheme is the same as the foyer—black and dark red—which makes everything feel more intimate.
Deep booths line the walls, each one curtained for privacy, and clusters of armchairs and low tables fill the floor, arranged so that every group would feel secluded even if it was crowded.
It’s not crowded tonight, but it is busy. The clientele are all well-dressed men, drinking and talking in the kind of low murmurs that suggest every conversation is confidential.
“You see this Grisha anywhere?” Dami mutters.
I chance a look around. But then I wish I hadn’t, as the conversation in the room lulls, heads turn my way, and a new whisper begins to spread. I hear my name.
And the hatred as it’s spoken.
“You don’t talk to anyone,” Dami tells me in a low voice. “You hear me?” I nod. “And you don’t make eye contact with anyone. Either they’ll think it’s a challenge or a come-on, and I’m not in the mood to get into a fight over it, not after that dumpster jump.”
Not after his injury, he means.
“I’ll be good, Dami,” I murmur. “I promise.”
The hand on my neck squeezes just a bit tighter. “You sound like you’re enjoying this, little prince.”
He sounds strange. Angry. Possessive.
“I’m not enjoying it at all,” I tell him truthfully, and the pressure on my neck relaxes.
And then, before I even register it’s happening, he pulls the cloak back off my shoulders, so that the whole room can see my nudity—and the cage.
I suck at the insides of my cheeks so I don’t gasp or protest. I should have expected this.
Not only because we agreed we had to act the part when we came here, but because it’s all part of Damiano Orsini’s plan for revenge.
He told me when he bought me that he planned to break me.
He didn’t mean physically. That would be too easy.
No, what he wants is to make me suffer psychologically.
What was it that he said just before we left? My Clemenza ego is visible from space. He wasn’t wrong. It’s something that he and others will be able to manipulate, if I can’t control it myself.
Thinking through the problem helps calm my nerves. So when Damiano moves a few steps in front and says, “Follow me,” I’m able to do it with suitably downcast eyes and slumped shoulders.
What do I care if the Bratva think he’s broken me already? This is a long game, a marathon, not a sprint. The Bratva are not a concern for me right now.
But then I stop dead as I hear a familiar laugh.