“I’m so glad you’re finally here,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion and relief. “It’s so nice not to wake up alone.”
The words slice into me, eviscerating my heart. How many nights has he spent down here in this beautiful basement prison, waking from nightmares with no one to comfort him?
My chest aches at the thought of it. My poor sweet, little Ginni. How could I ever have been angry at him? I’m ashamed of myself.
“Ginni, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” I start, the endearment slipping out without conscious thought. “If I pushed you too far today, if I hurt you...”
“No,” he interrupts, his voice fierce despite the tremor running through it. “No, you didn’t hurt me. I loved every second of what we did. I loved letting you take control.”
He’s still shaking, still clinging to me like I’m his anchor in a storm. “My nightmare was about Camp,” he whispers.
“What camp?” I ask, even though something cold is already settling in my stomach, weighing down any relief I might have felt at not being the cause of his night terrors.
“Conversion camp.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Conversion therapy. The kind of barbaric practice that’s been banned in civilized countries, the psychological torture that masquerades as treatment.
“Your family put you in conversion therapy?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
I feel him nod against my shoulder, the movement small and defeated. “After I told Marco I was in love with you.”
Guilt overwhelms me, a crushing weight that makes it hard to breathe. This is my fault. Not directly, not intentionally, but myexistence in their lives. Ginni’s feelings for me led to this horror being visited on him.
Everything suddenly makes terrible sense. The obsession, the careful planning, the complete disconnect from normal social boundaries. An innocent teenage crush twisted into something dangerous by trauma and abuse, left to fester in isolation for years.
“When was this?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know. “How did I not know about it?”
“The summer I turned sixteen,” Ginni replies, and I can hear the indignation creeping into his voice despite his distress. “I didn’t need to go to summer school. There was nothing wrong with my grades. I had straight A’s.”
Even now, even recounting this horror, he’s offended by the cover story they used. The slander against his academic achievement. It’s so quintessentially Ginni that I feel my heart crack a little more.
Of course his grades were perfect. This brilliant, beautiful boy who can solve my business problems in seconds, who speaks multiple languages, who’s mastered everything from blade maintenance to massage therapy. The idea of him needing remedial education is laughable.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” I say, the words feeling inadequate but necessary. “They shouldn’t have done that to you. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being gay, or feminine, or exactly who you are.”
He doesn’t respond, just makes a small sniffling sound that breaks what’s left of my heart.
Ginni shouldn’t ever need to cry. Ginni should never feel this sad. He is incredible and strong. Clever and cunning. And I’m so proud of him. After everything his family has done to him, he is still unashamedly his glorious self.
Oh god. Marco knew. Marco played a part in this.
Marco, my oldest friend, the man I’ve trusted with my life countless times. The man who knew his little brother was in conversion therapy and never said a word. Never asked for help, never mentioned that his family was torturing a sixteen-year-old boy for the crime of having feelings.
Rage builds in my chest, cold and calculating. Not the hot fury of the moment, but the kind of anger that plans and waits and never forgets.
Two decisions crystalize in my mind with perfect clarity.
First, I’m getting Ginni away from his family. I don’t know how yet, don’t know where, but I’m not letting him go back to people who would do this to him. He needs safety, protection, people who will love him exactly as he is.
And second, Marco is dead to me. Friendship, loyalty, shared history… none of it matters anymore. He participated in the destruction of his own brother, and I will never forgive him for that.
“Sleep now,” I whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Ginni’s head. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
I mean it. Truly, utterly and completely. I’m a mafia man, a capo. My word is a vow. My word is law.
Ginni is safe. With me, he’s safe.
And I’m going to make sure it stays that way.
