Chapter 15 Gabe
GABE
After Amelia leaves, I find myself staring at the rumpled sheets, her scent still lingering in the air. Something feels different. Off-balance. With previous submissives, I’d be erasing evidence of their presence by now in my personal space, but I find myself preserving the chaos she left behind.
Three hours later, I’m sliding into a booth across from Adrian at Vincenzo’s, a dimly lit Italian place where the owner knows to leave us alone.
“You look distracted,” Adrian says, swirling his Barolo. “I take it the artist kept you busy.”
“She’s not what I expected.” I knock back half my whiskey, letting the burn center me. “She just... surrenders. Completely. No hesitation.”
Adrian smirks. “Maya was the opposite. Fighting me every step until she wasn’t.”
“My previous arrangements were clean. Controlled. They wanted the fantasy, not the reality.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Amelia walked into my office knowing exactly who I am.”
“Did she now?” Adrian’s eyes narrow. “You didn’t actually show her your... collection, did you?”
“No. But she senses something.”
“Dangerous territory.” Adrian places his glass down. “Maya knows everything now. It’s quite liberating. But it’s a one-way door, Gabe. Once opened, it can’t be closed.”
I drum my fingers against the table. “I want to mark her. Not just her skin. I want to leave something permanent inside her mind.”
“And yet...” Adrian studies me. “You’re conflicted. You had that waitress fired last month for using your first name without permission. But I’m guessing Ms. Stone has far greater liberties.”
The observation hits uncomfortably close. “She sees patterns. In everything. What if she sees through me completely?”
“You’re falling,” Adrian observes, a dangerous smile playing at his lips. “The question is whether you’ll drag her down with you or try to climb up to her level.”
I grip my glass tighter. “I don’t fall.”
“Then why are you here, discussing feelings like a lovesick teenager?” Adrian’s tone is mocking. “She’s changing you.”
I check my phone as it buzzes again—fifth time in an hour. Caruso.
We need to talk about that smell, Dawson. Health department’s getting involved now.
I text back with calmly.
Already addressed. New plumbing was installed yesterday.
His response is immediate:
Not good enough. Inspection tomorrow, 2 PM.
Fuck.
I slide my phone across the table. “Caruso’s breathing down my neck. Inspection tomorrow at two.”
Adrian glances at the message, his expression hardening. “What exactly does he suspect?”
“Enough to be dangerous. That water main break exposed more than it should have. The new plumbing bought me time, but he’s not backing down.”
“Then we need to remove him from the equation,” Adrian says, like he’s discussing removing an impurity from chocolate. “Permanently.”
I shake my head. “We can’t. He’s too high profile—head of the neighborhood association, city council connections, monthly column in the Tribune. He’s practically a local celebrity.”
“We’ve handled prominent targets before.”
“Not like this.” I knock back the rest of my whiskey. “Reynolds is already causing waves. Did you see this morning’s headlines? ‘Missing Councilman Investigation Intensifies.’ They’re interviewing his secretary, his wife, everyone.”
Adrian frowns. “I thought we covered that thoroughly.”
“We did. The private flight to the Caymans is on record, his passport was scanned at customs. The offshore account we set up has exactly the amount missing from those redevelopment funds. Even planted evidence of his mistress meeting him there.” I run a hand through my hair.
“It’s holding for now, but add Caruso to the mix?
Two prominent locals vanishing in the same month? It’s too suspicious, even for Chicago.”
Adrian contemplates this, tapping his finger against his wineglass. “What about an accident, then? Gas leak? Brake failure?”
“It would still draw attention, exactly what we don’t need right now.” I stare at my empty glass, wishing it would refill itself. “And my basement isn’t exactly ready for visitors.”
Adrian drains his wine. “Let’s check the basement,” he suggests, voice dropping lower. “See exactly what we’re dealing with.”
I signal for the check, leaving too much cash on the table in my urgency to leave.
Twenty minutes later, we’re descending the stairs at The Blue Room, the club silent and empty above us. The wine cellar’s soft lighting casts everything in a warm amber glow that belies what lies beyond it.
I unlock the panel at the back of the wine cellar, revealing the narrow corridor that leads to my gallery.
“Fuck,” I mutter, the mingled smell of chemicals and decay hitting us immediately. “The new ventilation system isn’t working properly.”
Adrian steps past me into the dim passageway. “Even I can smell it. If Caruso gets this far...”
We both know what that means. Game over.
“What if we seal it completely?” Adrian suggests, running his fingers along the edge of the panel. “Build it into the wall overnight?”
I shake my head. “Too permanent. I need regular access.” I pace the wine cellar, considering our options. “The next shipment of Bordeaux arrives today. Eight cases.”
Adrian watches me, understanding forming in his eyes. “Temporary blockade.”
“Exactly.” I move to the heavy oak wine rack nearest the panel. “If we reposition these three racks, create a solid wall of inventory...”
“You’d need to move at least fifty bottles.”
“Sixty-seven,” I correct automatically. “We’ll stack the new cases in front of them. No one questions a wine stockpile in a jazz club.”
“The smell, though.” Adrian’s expression tightens with concern.
I grimace, running a hand through my hair. “I know. The mummies are perfect—no odor at all. It’s the earlier work that’s causing problems. The ones from before I perfected the preservation technique.”
“The freezer units?”
“Exactly. Ten of my first subjects are still in the old cold storage room. The cooling system was connected to the pipes that burst during the water main break. Temperature’s been fluctuating ever since.”
Adrian nods slowly. “That’s why the smell is escaping. Your earliest collection.”
“My formative years,” I mutter, thinking of those first righteous kills—the rapist who walked free, the drunk driver who killed a family of four and paid his way out of prison. “I couldn’t bring myself to dispose of them completely. They were... educational.”
“Sentimental, even.” Adrian’s tone holds no judgment, just understanding. “Your evolution as an artist.”
I walk to the industrial breaker panel on the opposite wall. “I’ve got industrial-strength air purifiers in storage. We run them all night, redirect the ventilation through the old kitchen ducts.” I trace the path with my finger. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll mask enough for a casual inspection.”
“And Caruso?”
“I’ll handle him personally. Give him the VIP treatment. Limited tour, plenty of distractions.” I allow myself a tight smile. “He’s married to that twenty-five-year-old Instagram model. I’ll have Elise work the bar tomorrow—you know how men get around her.”
Adrian raises an eyebrow. “And if that doesn’t work?”
I’ve already considered this. “Then he’ll eventually join my collection. Just not tomorrow.”
We begin moving wine bottles, creating a barrier between my secret and the world. Each bottle placed feels like another lock sliding into place, securing both our safety and my treasures beyond.
The doorbell chimes upstairs, three short bursts that echo down to the wine cellar.
“Right on time,” I say, checking my watch. It’s exactly 4:30. “That’ll be Moretti with the Bordeaux.”
“I’ll keep working here,” Adrian says, meticulously realigning bottles on the rack we’ve moved.
I take the stairs two at a time, unlocking the service entrance where Moretti stands with his dolly loaded with wooden crates. The Italian importer has supplied my wine for years, with no questions asked about my orders.
“Eight cases of the ‘09 Bordeaux, Mr. Dawson,” he says, already wheeling the first stack inside. “Premium stuff. You throwing a special event?”
“Yes, actually. Jazz Heritage Weekend next month,” I answer, signing his digital pad with a quick scrawl. “Got Donovan Blake quartet booked for three nights. His followers have expensive taste in wine to match their taste in music.”
“Blake’s coming here? Nice get.” Moretti sounds genuinely impressed as he maneuvers the dolly. “Take these straight down to the cellar?”
“Please.”
Moretti navigates the narrow staircase with practiced ease. When he catches sight of Adrian in my wine cellar, he merely nods. Moretti has seen Adrian here enough times.
Twenty minutes later, the cellar floor is stacked with eight wooden crates bearing the distinctive mark of Chateau Margaux. Moretti leaves with a generous tip, and Adrian and I survey our work.
“Perfect timing,” Adrian remarks, running his hand along one of the crates. “These will complete our little barricade quite nicely.”
We work in practiced synchronicity, removing bottles from their wooden nests and arranging them against the wall in a configuration.
The dark glass gleams under the cellar lights as we create an impenetrable barrier.
I position each bottle carefully, ensuring maximum stability while completely obscuring the panel door behind.
“There,” I say finally, stepping back to admire our handiwork.
The wine racks and newly stacked Bordeaux create a solid wall of glass and liquid, rendering the hidden panel completely inaccessible without major disruption.
“Even if Caruso insists on a complete tour, he’d have to move sixty-seven bottles, a metal wine rack, and eight cases to find anything suspicious. ”
Adrian slides the last bottle into place, completing our fortress of fermented grapes. “No one questions a wine stockpile in a jazz club,” he echoes my earlier words. “Especially not one as impressive as this.”
I run my hand along the bottles, feeling their cool solidity. Behind this wall lies my greatest work, safely hidden away from prying eyes. For now.