The image forms in my mind with horrifying clarity. This beautiful, delicate boy locked in a cage with the worst men society has to offer. Without his knives, without his meticulous planning, without the safe haven of this basement or his cattle prod. Just a tiny, gorgeous waif surrounded by frustrated monsters who would see his feminine beauty as an invitation.
Ginni wouldn’t last a week. Maybe not even a day. He’s small, he’s pretty, and he’s exactly the kind of vulnerable target that predators circle like sharks smelling blood. All that blazingintelligence, all that fierce spirit, crushed under the weight of casual brutality.
He’d be destroyed. Completely crushed by men who would take pride in claiming something so beautiful. And there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do to protect him.
The realization makes me sick to my stomach. When did protecting Ginni become more important to me than my own freedom? When did the thought of harm coming to him become worse than the thought of staying trapped here?
I should be more concerned about Marco’s safety. Even though I have already vowed that the man is dead to me. He is still a living breathing human being. He was my friend, my brother in all but blood.
But all I can think about is the way Ginni trembled when he told me about conversion therapy. The way his voice broke, the way he clung to me like I was his only anchor in a world that wanted to destroy him for existing.
Ginni is not evil. He’s not a monster. He’s just broken in ways that make him dangerous, and he deserves better than to be fed to the wolves in some concrete cage.
The thought of anyone hurting him makes something violent and protective rise in my chest, something that feels dangerously close to love.
Cristo. What the hell is wrong with me?
I strain to listen, catching fragments of conversation from the main living area.
“You look ridiculous.” Marco’s voice carries down the hallway, flat and disapproving. There’s no warmth in it, no brotherly concern. Just tired resignation, like he’s inspecting something distasteful that he’s obligated to deal with.
“Good morning to you too, fratellino.” Ginni’s voice is bright and cheerful, but I can hear the steel underneath. The careful control.
“Mamma sent me to check on you. She’s worried you’re not taking care of yourself while she’s away.” The way Marco says it makes it clear this is a chore, an unwanted responsibility foisted on him by their mother.
“How thoughtful of her to worry about her disappointing son.”
There’s a pause, tension crackling through the air even from this distance. I can almost picture Marco’s face, that expression of long-suffering patience he gets when dealing with problems he’d rather ignore.
“Are you taking your medication?” Marco asks, his tone suggesting this is a conversation they’ve had many times before. Like he’s reading from a script, checking boxes on a list of obligatory concerns.
“I don’t need medication.”
“The doctors said...”
“The doctors said a lot of things. Most of them were lies designed to make other people feel better.”
I can hear movement now, Marco probably looking around the apartment, maybe noticing things are different. More lived in. More well-supplied. Signs that Ginni isn’t living alone anymore.
“What’s with all the candles and flowers? This place looks like a bloody wedding venue.” There’s disgust in Marco’s voice now, like he’s personally offended by his brother’s attempt to create beauty in this underground prison.
My heart stops. Wedding venue. If Marco starts asking the right questions, starts looking more closely...
“I like beautiful things. Is that a crime?”
“You’re wearing silk shorts and that absurd excuse for a shirt. In the middle of the day.” Marco’s voice gets sharper, more cutting. “Christ, Ginni, you’re not even trying to be normal. What would people think if they saw you like this?”
The casual cruelty in Marco’s words hits me like a physical blow. This is a side of him I’ve never seen, never suspectedexisted. The man I’ve considered a brother for over half my life, speaking to his actual brother like he’s something distasteful that needs to be corrected.
“People don’t see me,” Ginni replies quietly. “That’s rather the point, isn’t it? Keep the embarrassment hidden away where it can’t reflect poorly on the family name.”
“Don’t start with that martyr complex again. You chose this lifestyle, you deal with the consequences.”
Lifestyle. Like being gay is a choice Ginni made to spite his family, rather than simply who he is.
“Not that you’ll ever be normal,” Marco continues, and I can hear the tired resignation in his voice. Like he’s given up on Ginni entirely, written him off as a lost cause. “But you could at least make an effort. Put on proper clothes. Act like you have some self-respect.”
The words hang in the air like poison. I lie there, chained and helpless, listening to my best friend carelessly destroy what’s left of his little brother’s self-worth. Each casual cruelty delivered with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s been doing this for years.
