Chapter 2
Your Master awaits? Oh, that's just precious. The pretentious drama of it all makes me want to laugh, except there's nothing funny about being shepherded into a literal dungeon stairwell by a man who fatally shot someone in front of me two weeks ago.
I step forward, the threshold between marble opulence and stone darkness feeling symbolic in a way that's too on-the-nose for even the cheapest paperback thriller. I'm halfway through turning my head to deliver some cutting remark when the heavy door swings shut behind me with a weighted finality.
Clink. Scrape.
The key turns in the lock, each tiny mechanical movement amplified in the narrow stairwell. Giovanni isn't rushing this—no, he's making a whole production out of it, ensuring I hear every tooth of the key sliding into place. It's the audio equivalent of a villain monologue.
"Are you serious right now?" My heart rate spikes instantly, my palm slapping against the door. "Did you actually just lock me in a stairwell like some budget horror movie extra?"
No response. Of course.
I pound harder, the vibration shooting up my arm. "Giovanni!" My voice bounces off stone walls, returning to me like a mocking echo. "You utter demon-car-salesman knockoff! What is this, Kidnapping for Dummies?"
The silence on the other side feels smug. I can practically see him standing there, one eyebrow raised in that infuriating way, waiting for my panic to reach whatever threshold he's decided is appropriate for today's psychological torture session.
"This isn't a good look for you!" I slam my palm again, harder this time. "Very 'unimaginative villain who skipped the creativity chapter in Evil Plans 101'!"
My voice is getting higher, more brittle with each sentence. The acoustics in here are making me sound like a shrill harpy, which only fuels my indignation. That single turn of the key keeps replaying in my head like a skipping record—one casual flick of his wrist erasing all my autonomy.
"What's next? A pit and a basket of lotion? Are you going to tell me it puts the lotion on its skin?" I kick the door, which is about as effective as kicking a mountain. "Did you take your villain cues from a BuzzFeed list of 'Top 10 Most Obvious Hostage Scenarios'?"
The fear is building underneath my rage, threading through it like poison. My breath is coming faster now, my palms damp against the unyielding door. I've gone from employee to prisoner in the span of a car ride, and there's no HR department to file a complaint with.
"You're Dracula with abs!" I shout, knowing it's ridiculous even as the words leave my mouth. "Voldemort on vacation! Cruella De Vil except male and somehow more high maintenance!"
I'm spiraling into absurdity now, but it feels better than silence. Better than acknowledging the weight of stone all around me, the darkness stretching below.
"Hannibal Lecter if he spent more time on his skincare routine! The Joker if he shopped exclusively at Tom Ford!"
A half-laugh escapes me, bordering on hysteria as I hear the nonsense tumbling from my lips. I'm panic-ranting to an empty stairwell, comparing a man who has literally killed someone to fictional villains like that somehow makes this situation less terrifying.
The banging slows, then stops. My palms sting. My throat feels raw. And beneath it all is the sinking certainty that Giovanni isn't coming back to open this door until he's good and ready.
Giovanni doesn't do rescues. He does prisons with better lighting and designer furniture. He does psychological experiments disguised as job opportunities. He does abandonment dressed up as character building.
My anger tangles with real fear now, creating something hot and tight in my chest. I stomp my sneaker against the cement platform, just to hear something I control in this stone tomb of silence.
The silence that follows my outburst is like the vacuum after a bomb detonation—dense, ringing, and somehow worse than the noise that preceded it. My own panting echoes back at me, distorted by the acoustics of the stairwell until it sounds like someone else's breath. Someone stalking me.
Thirty seconds of nothing but my own heaving chest and the blood pulsing in my ears.
The hollow curve of the stairwell mangles every small sound I make, stretching sighs into moans, turning my shuffling feet into something larger, more ominous.
Even my swallow sounds theatrical, like I'm auditioning for the role of Terrified Woman #3.
The worst part is the total isolation. I could scream until my lungs collapse, and the only audience would be these indifferent stone walls.
No passersby to hear, no neighbors to bang on the ceiling, no 911 dispatcher to track my phone's GPS.
Just me, locked in Giovanni's personal oubliette.
How convenient to have a dungeon when you occasionally need to dispose of people who've seen too much.
CRACK.
My body launches upward like I've been tased, a yelp escaping before I can swallow it. I disguise it with a fake cough that probably convinces exactly no one, even though there's no one here to convince.
"Ahem. Just...clearing my throat. No big deal."
CRACK.
I freeze, tilting my head like a paranoid meerkat spotting a hawk. Or like a squirrel who's forgotten where it buried its panic attack. Every muscle in my body goes rigid as I try to pinpoint the source, but the acoustics in here are playing tricks, bouncing the sound from every direction at once.
CRACK.
The sound has a rhythm to it. Metronomic. Precise. Every couple of seconds, another sharp report cuts through the darkness, a tiny auditory blade slicing the silence.
CRACK.
My mind races through a catalog of absurd explanations, because absurdity is safer than whatever reality is waiting down those stairs.
It's a busted metronome, abandoned when Giovanni's childhood piano teacher fled in terror from his dead-eyed scales practice.
It's an IKEA project being assembled by the world's most methodical snail.
It's a woodpecker the size of Bigfoot, systematically dismantling the mansion's foundation one peck at a time.
Maybe Giovanni hired interns whose sole job is to slap wooden boards together every two seconds. "Entry-level position: Psychological Torture Assistant. Must be willing to perform repetitive tasks. No benefits."
CRACK.
Each theory more ridiculous than the last, my brain desperately spinning cotton candy logic around the bitter pill of reality.
Because if I stop the sarcasm, if I actually take this seriously, I'll have to acknowledge that I'm locked in a stairwell with something making ominous noises, and the only person who knows I'm here is the same man who recently demonstrated how comfortable he is with murder.
I plant my fists on my hips, summoning my best theater-kid bravado. "Very funny! Love the sound design, ten out of ten for atmosphere!" My voice cracks embarrassingly on "atmosphere," betraying the false confidence like a squeaky violin string in an otherwise perfect symphony.
The silence that follows feels judgmental. Like the darkness itself is rolling its eyes at my pathetic attempt at nonchalance.
This is just Giovanni's theatrical nonsense.
Probably ordered a "Dungeon Ambience: Volume III" CD from some specialty horror prop shop.
"Guaranteed to Make Your Hostage Question Their Life Choices.
" He's probably got a little remote control upstairs, timing each sound effect for maximum psychological torment while he sips espresso and scrolls through his murder playlist.
CRACK.
Oh god.
My brain unhelpfully flashes back to last week, that first meeting in his office when I nervously word-vomited a joke about spanking punishments within ten seconds of meeting him. The memory hits like a brick to the forehead. I literally slap my own head, groaning. "Don't manifest it, Emmaleen."
Which of course only makes me think about it harder. My imagination helpfully provides a detailed scenario where Giovanni introduces me to his collection of antique disciplinary implements. "This crop belonged to Catherine the Great. This paddle was hand-carved by Machiavelli himself."
CRACK.
No no no. I'm not doing this. I grab hold of the doorknob, suddenly convinced that maybe Giovanni didn't really lock it. Maybe it just looks that way. Maybe it's a trick latch, part of his whole smoke-and-mirrors routine.
I jiggle the knob so hard it sounds like I'm playing maracas in a particularly aggressive salsa band. Nothing. I pull harder, throwing my shoulder against the door like I'm auditioning for a cop show. Still locked.
I can practically see Giovanni on the other side, lounging in some ridiculous leather armchair, sipping something pretentiously expensive while watching me on hidden cameras. Probably critiquing my form. "Poor technique. No follow-through. I'd give it a three out of ten for dramatic effect."
CRACK.
"Screw this," I hiss, aiming a frustrated kick at the bottom panel. Not hard enough to break anything—I'm not insane enough to destroy his property when he's already demonstrated a casual attitude toward homicide—but enough to make my toe throb in protest.
Now I'm hopping on one foot, swearing at my ancient sneaker like it personally betrayed me.
"You shelter closet rejects!" I yell up at the ceiling, addressing both the shoes and the mismatched outfit I cobbled together this morning.
"You were all part of the conspiracy! Designed to make me look ridiculous while I'm being terrorized by discount Patrick Bateman and his sound effects! "
CRACK.
The absurdity of blaming my secondhand clothes for my current predicament hits me, and a hiccup of laughter bubbles up from my chest. Thank god for that, because otherwise the pressure building behind my eyes would definitely turn into tears, and I refuse—absolutely refuse—to give Giovanni's surveillance cameras the satisfaction.