And I thought Marco was a good man. I thought he cared about family. I thought he was someone worth respecting.
How many times has this scene played out? How many visits where Marco comes down here, delivers his obligatory check-in, and leaves Ginni feeling smaller and more worthless than before? How many years of casual contempt disguised as brotherly concern?
No wonder Ginni is the way he is. No wonder he’s built this elaborate fantasy where someone actually wants him, actually chooses him over the rest of the world. When your own family treats you like a shameful burden, obsessive love probably seems like the only alternative to complete isolation.
“I should go,” Marco says after another long pause filled with uncomfortable silence. “Call if you need anything. Actually call this time, don’t make everyone worry.”
Everyone worry. As if anyone in that family actually worries about Ginni rather than worrying about what embarrassment he might cause them.
“Try to take better care of yourself,” Marco adds as an afterthought, the words perfunctory and hollow. “Maybe try dressing like a man. Or try sticking to your therapy schedule. Try to remember you’re a Torrini, even if you don’t act like one.”
Each suggestion is a small knife. The implication that he’s a failure unworthy of the family name. That everything wrong with his life is a personal failing rather than the result of systematic neglect and abuse.
Footsteps again, heading back toward the stairs. The sound of the door opening and closing. Then silence.
I wait, heart pounding, until Ginni appears in the bedroom doorway. The dagger has disappeared, hidden away as efficiently as it appeared. His face is bright with genuine happiness, eyes sparkling with joy and satisfaction, but I can see the slight tremor in his hands, the careful way he holds himself. Marco’s words have hit their target, even if Ginni would never admit it.
“You stayed quiet,” he says, wonder and delight coloring his voice like he’s witnessing a miracle. “You could have called out, could have ruined everything, but you stayed quiet.”
He practically bounces as he approaches the bed, any distress completely hidden behind that brilliant smile. Whatever damage Marco’s visit might have done is buried under layers of practiced performance.
“You chose me,” he continues, settling beside me on the bed with obvious pleasure. “When you had the chance to be rescued, you chose to stay with me instead. That deserves a reward, don’t you think?”
The word ‘reward’ sends heat racing through my veins despite everything that’s just happened. Some twisted part of me is already anticipating what form his gratitude might take, already eager for his hands on my skin. The way he says it, with that breathless excitement and underlying need, makes my body respond in ways I’m trying desperately to ignore.
A saner part of me is screaming that I’ve just made the worst mistake of my life. That I’ve chosen captivity over freedom, madness over sanity, a beautiful broken boy over my oldest friend. That by staying silent, I’ve become a willing participant in my own imprisonment.
I had my chance, and I didn’t take it. I chose to protect the person holding me captive instead of saving myself.
And the most terrifying part is that I’m not sure I regret it.
The image of Ginni in prison is haunting me, his delicate beauty surrounded by predators who would destroy him. The thought of Ginni, scared, injured and confused, is too much to bear. Would he even understand why people were hurting him? Would his delusions try to twist it into something else?
Cristo. My lungs don’t want to move, they are weighted with feelings I can’t quite name, but feel dangerously like the kind of love that burns down the world to keep one person safe.
“Ginni,” I start, though I don’t know what I want to say.
“Shh,” he whispers again, pressing closer to me with cat-like contentment. “No regrets, my love. No doubts. You made the right choice. The only choice that matters.”
His hands are already moving, already working their familiar magic, and I can see the desperate need underneath his gratitude. The way he touches me like I’m his anchor, his proof that someone chose him over safety, over sanity, over everything that should matter more than a broken boy’s feelings.
His touch is a way of seeking assurance that someone in this world actually wants him.
“Now let me show you how grateful I am,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion and desire and something that sounds suspiciously like genuine love.
I close my eyes and let myself sink into the sensation, into the worship of his hands and mouth, into the twisted comfort of being wanted this desperately. Because maybe he’s right. Maybe this was the only choice I could have made.
Maybe I’ve been his all along, and I’m just finally admitting it to myself. The realization terrifies me more than anything else that’s happened in this beautiful basement prison. The thought that I might actually want to be here. With him.
The thought that when I had the chance to leave, I discovered I couldn’t bear to break his heart.
Not when I finally understand how many people already have.
Chapter twenty
Ginni
Carlo was such a good boy. I’m so very proud of him. I thought it would take him a lot longer to come to his senses and realize he loves me. Yet here he is, staying quiet so he can stay with me.
