Chapter one
Carlo
Someone took a sledgehammer to my head and then finished the job with a jackhammer. The taste in my mouth is pure chemical bitterness, like I’ve been gargling cleaning products, and there’s this weird fuzzy feeling behind my eyes that makes everything seem slightly out of focus.
What the fuck happened last night?
I try to lift my hand to rub my face and immediately discover a major problem with my current situation. My wrist won’t move. Neither will the other one. They’re both secured to something solid above my head.
Ice floods my veins.
My body jerks and my head thunks against the headboard, triggering a flood of fragmented memories. Last night. The family dinner at the Torrini mansion, where Ginni had sat across from me, those impossibly blue eyes tracking my every movement like I was prey instead of his older brother’s business associate. The way he’d volunteered to walk me to my car whenI’d finally made my excuses to leave. His hand on my arm as we stepped outside. The prick of something sharp against my neck. The way the world tilted sideways and went dark.
The little psychopath drugged me. Actually fucking drugged me.
It should be a relief to realize I’ve not been snatched by the Russians. Figuring out I’ve been abducted by my best friend’s little brother, should be fucking fantastic news. But judging by the way my heart is racing, I think I’d feel safer with the Bratva. My sanity and well-being would certainly have a better chance of surviving.
I blink hard, forcing my vision to clear, and take stock of where I am. The ceiling is low, painted white with recessed lighting around the edges that gives off a warm glow. There are no windows, but I can hear the faint hum of air conditioning. The walls are a deep charcoal gray, and what I can see of the furniture screams money. This isn’t some dingy basement kidnapping scenario. This is a luxury bunker.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I’m in the basement flat. Ginni’s basement flat. The place the Torrini family built for their youngest son so they could pretend he doesn’t exist while still keeping him close enough to maintain the illusion of family unity.
Underground. Soundproofed. Where nobody will think to look for me.
Where nobody can hear me scream.
I glance around frantically, trying to fully assess my new surroundings. I’ve never been down here before. Marco always meets me upstairs in the main house, or we go out. The basement is Ginni’s domain, his gilded cage, and I’ve always respected that boundary. Now I realize that was a really fucking good idea. This isn’t just a living space. It’s a fucking trap.
Another major problem becomes apparent when I try to sit up. I’m not just handcuffed to what appears to be a very sturdy wrought iron headboard, I’m also completely naked under a soft gray sheet that’s been pulled up to my chest with what seems like deliberate modesty.
And my ankles are chained to the footboard, leaving me spreadeagled.
“What the actual fuck,” I mutter, my voice coming out as a croak.
Panic claws at my chest. This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. I’m Carlo Benedetti. I run the most successful nightclub in East London. I’m Dario Ajello’s right-hand man, his closest advisor. Men twice my size cross the street to avoid me. I’ve tortured information out of grown men who begged for death rather than face another hour in my presence.
And some twenty-one-year-old boy has drugged me, stripped me naked, and chained me to his bed like I’m his fucking pet.
I test the restraints, pulling harder this time. The handcuffs are real metal, police grade from the feel of them, and they’re attached to solid wrought iron. Professional hardware. The bed doesn’t even creak under the strain. Every part of this has been planned, prepared, engineered.
I know he’s had a crush on me for years, I’d be blind to miss that. But now it seems the deadly little menace has decided to take action.
The thought makes my skin crawl and my cock twitch at the same time, which is so fucked up I want to put my fist through something.
Just how long has he been planning this for? How long has he been watching me, studying me, waiting for the right moment to strike? And how the hell has he managed to pull it off, without any help?
But even as the questions form, I know the answer. This is Giovanni Torrini. The boy who set fire to his boarding school dormitory when he was fifteen because his roommate annoyed him. Who once stabbed a university classmate with a fork for making comments about his clothes. Who smiles sweetly while plotting the downfall of anyone who crosses him.
Beautiful, brilliant, and absolutely fucking unhinged. Capable of anything he puts his delusional mind to.
And now he has me exactly where he wants me. Helpless. Vulnerable. Completely at his mercy.
The worst part? Some sick, twisted part of me is getting hard just thinking about it.
The door opens with a soft click, and every muscle in my body goes tense. Fight or flight kicks in, but I can’t do either. I’m trapped, exposed, powerless for the first time in my adult life.
“Good morning, Handsome.”
That voice, soft and musical with just a hint of Italian accent that gets stronger when he’s emotional, makes something twist in my chest. Terror and rage and something else I absolutely refuse to acknowledge. I turn my head, and there he is, leaning against the doorframe like some sort of avenging angel.
