The matter-of-fact way he discusses this level of surveillance is chilling. How many conversations has he overheard? How many private meetings has he somehow monitored? The scope of his knowledge suggests access that goes far beyond casual observation.
“Why?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
“Because I love you,” he replies as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “When you love someone truly, completely, you learn everything about them. Their favorite foods, their business contacts, their fears, their weaknesses, their strengths.” His smile turns sharp, predatory. “Knowledge is power, and power is protection.”
He sets the phone aside with finality, as if the conversation is closed. Then he reaches under the bed. What he pulls out makes my heart stop beating for several long seconds.
A leather roll, the kind used for storing and transporting delicate instruments. Professional grade, well-worn, obviously expensive. But when he unrolls it on the blanket between us with ceremonial care, it reveals a collection of knives that would make a professional chef weep with envy.
Or a professional killer.
“Time for maintenance,” Ginni announces cheerfully, selecting a particularly wicked-looking blade and examining itin the artificial light. The knife is beautiful in a deadly way, the blade gleaming like liquid mercury, the handle wrapped in what looks like genuine leather worn smooth by use. “I like to keep my tools in perfect condition. You never know when you might need them.”
He begins cleaning the blade with practiced movements, each stroke deliberate and precise. There’s something almost ritualistic about the way he works, like this is a meditation or prayer made of steel and violence.
“You have a lot of knives,” I observe, trying to keep my voice steady despite the way my pulse is racing.
“I collect them,” Ginni says, moving on to sharpening the blade with a whetstone that produces a sound like whispered threats. The scraping noise sets my teeth on edge, metallic and ominous in the quiet room. “Different types for different purposes. This one’s Italian, from a little shop in Florence that’s been making blades for four hundred years. Perfect balance, holds an edge beautifully. Very versatile for both kitchen work and... other applications.”
The casual way he discusses the weapons while maintaining them is somehow more terrifying than any direct threat could be. This isn’t posturing or intimidation meant to frighten me. This is simply part of his routine, like someone else might clean their glasses or organize their desk. The normalcy of it is what makes it so chilling.
He picks up a piece of paper from his kit and tests the blade’s sharpness against it, and it parts like silk without any pressure at all. Satisfied, he sets it aside and selects another knife, this one with a thinner blade that looks almost surgical in its precision.
“This one’s German,” he continues conversationally, beginning the same careful cleaning process. “Specifically designed for delicate work. Amazing what you can accomplish with the right tools and sufficient knowledge of anatomy.”
The way he says anatomy makes my blood turn to ice water. This isn’t a cooking enthusiast discussing kitchen equipment. This is someone who’s given serious thought to the practical applications of sharp objects on human bodies.
“Ginni,” I say carefully, my mouth suddenly dry as sand, “what exactly are you planning to do with those?”
“Nothing, hopefully,” he replies, his tone suggesting this is a perfectly reasonable question with a perfectly reasonable answer. “But it’s important to be prepared for various contingencies. For instance, if Marco decides to visit.”
My blood pressure spikes so hard I see spots. “What about Marco?”
“Well, he might not understand our relationship at first,” Ginni continues in the same conversational tone, moving on to sharpening the second blade with methodical precision. “Big brothers can be so protective, so possessive. He might try to interfere with our happiness, maybe even try to take you away from me.”
The blade he’s working on is thinner than the first, more surgical in its precision. The kind of knife designed for delicate, precise work rather than slashing. The kind that could slip between ribs or find the space between vertebrae with surgical accuracy.
“And if that happens?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
“Then I’ll have to help him understand why that’s not going to be possible,” Ginni says with a sweet smile that doesn’t reach his eyes at all. “I’ll explain very carefully, very patiently, why you belong with me now. Why our marriage changes everything. Why interfering with our happiness would be... unwise.”
He tests the second blade’s edge, nodding with satisfaction when it easily slices through another piece of paper.
“And if he still doesn’t listen after your explanation?” I press, morbidly fascinated despite my horror.
“Well,” Ginni says with an elegant shrug, “sometimes people need more convincing than words can provide. Sometimes you have to demonstrate the consequences of poor choices in more... tangible ways.”
The matter-of-fact way he discusses potentially torturing or murdering Marco makes my stomach turn. This isn’t just delusional romantic fantasy anymore, if it ever was. This is genuine planning for violence, delivered with the same casual tone he might use to discuss weekend plans or grocery shopping.
“Marco is your brother,” I say desperately, pulling against the restraints hard enough to make them cut into my wrists. “You can’t seriously be talking about hurting him.”
“Half-brother,” Ginni corrects with clinical precision, his attention seemingly focused on the blade as he works. “And family is only meaningful when it’s reciprocated. Marco has spent years pretending I don’t exist, ashamed of what I represent, happy to leave me buried in this basement like some dirty secret he’d rather forget.”
There’s real pain in his voice now, quickly masked but unmistakable. For just a moment, I catch a glimpse of the wounded boy underneath all the madness. The child who was hidden away because his own family couldn’t bear to acknowledge him.
“He brings his people to family dinners and never once mentions that he has a brother,” Ginni continues, his voice taking on a harder edge. “I sit downstairs, invisible, forgotten. He’d rather I didn’t exist than have to explain me to people. If you hadn’t met me when I was a child, I’m sure he wouldn’t tell you about me either.”
The knife in his hands gleams as he turns it, checking every angle for imperfections.
