“Puttana! Puttana!” he wheezed.
I crouched, gripping his jaw in an iron hold, forcing his gaze to meet mine.
“There’s this thing called consent, asshole.”
I shoved him away, letting him crumple to the floor, his pained curses fading behind me.
Without a backward glance, I slipped deeper into the hall.
Below me, the true horror of the masquerade unfolded.
Women writhed in gilded cages suspended from the ceiling, their bodies twisted in sensual torment. Men with greasy hair and leering eyes milled around them like carrion crows, drunkenly pawing at their breasts, slipping fingers between their legs, violating them with careless entitlement.
My stomach turned.
I forced myself to keep moving.
The hall stretched before me like a dark, endless vein. My heart pounded as I neared the end, scanning for an escape, for anything that could lead me to what I came here for.
Then—
A door.
I skittered inside, closing it swiftly behindme.
Silence.
I pressed my back to the cool wood, panting, trying to shake the filth of the outside world from my skin. This place… it was both beautiful and terrible.
I had never seen such excess—such complete abandonment of morality—the things I had witnessed… copulation, fellatio, threesomes, foursomes—every depravity imaginable. I wasn’t a prude, but this was beyond anything I could stomach.
I exhaled and let my eyes adjust to the dim light.
The room was… strange.
Vivid reds, oranges, and greens swirled across the walls in hypnotic patterns, like marbled paper come to life. The colors rippled, shifting as if they breathed. Thick curtains trimmed in black brocade cascaded from the ceiling, veiling whatever lay beyond.
A single mirror loomed above the mantel, framed in ornate black scrollwork. Its beveled surface gleamed, reflecting nothing but shadows.
I pressed my ear to the door.
Silence.
Good.
I tiptoed deeper into the room, my pulse hammering.
The air changed, thickening with something darker.
Stone bookcases lined the walls; their shelves were filled with books and bones. Skulls leered from the dark recesses between the tomes, hollow sockets gaping in silent testimony. The ceiling was painted a deep, hellish red, like an apocalyptic sky drenched in blood.
Carvings in the stone whispered of agony—depictions of torture and death, etched with reverence.
This was not just a library.
This was Raul Costa’s throne room.
His church.
