The compliment lights up his entire face, transforming him from vulnerable boy to radiant angel in the space of a heartbeat. It’s the kind of pure, uncomplicated joy that most people lose by the time they’re ten years old.
“Really?”
“Really.”
I reach up without thinking, but the chains stop me from reaching him. He sees my attempt and leans down, close to me. I smile and brush a strand of hair away from his face. His skinis warm and soft under my fingers, and he leans further into the touch like a cat seeking affection.
“Thank you for sharing that with me.”
“I’ll share everything with you,” he says simply. “Every song, every dream, every secret thought I’ve ever had. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I had anything worth sharing.”
The words hit like a sucker punch, because they’re not manipulative or calculated. They’re so obviously true. This beautiful, brilliant boy has spent his entire life being told he’s too much, too different, too impossible to love. And somehow, impossibly, my presence in his life has given him permission to be exactly who he is.
“What else did you dream about?” I ask, genuinely curious now. “Besides singing for me.”
“Ridiculous things,” he says with a soft laugh, settling back against the pillows. “I wanted to cook for you, properly cook, not just the simple things I’ve been making here. I imagined elaborate dinner parties where I’d serve you seven courses and everyone would see how well I could take care of you.”
“That doesn’t sound ridiculous.”
“I wanted to read to you too. All the books you mentioned loving, I’d read them and imagine sitting by a fireplace somewhere, reading aloud while you worked on business papers. Just being useful, being... wanted.”
The simplicity of his desires is heartbreaking. Not fantasies of wealth or power or revenge, just the basic human need to be valued by someone.
“I practiced conversation topics,” he continues, warming to the subject now that he’s seen my genuine interest. “Current events, art, politics, literature. I wanted to be the kind of companion you’d never get bored with. Someone who could match your intelligence and understand your work.”
The memory of the other day surfaces, Ginni solving my club’s sound crisis with casual expertise while I lay here stunned by his competence.
“You do understand my work,” I point out. “Better than most of my actual associates.”
“I studied that too.” His cheeks color again, endearingly embarrassed. “Business journals, financial reports, anything I could find about your industry. I wanted to be able to help if you ever needed it.”
“Why?” I ask. “Why put so much effort into me?”
“Because you were kind to me.” The answer comes immediately, heartfelt and sincere. “At family dinners when everyone else ignored me or made uncomfortable jokes, you’d always include me in conversations. You asked about my studies, my interests. You treated me like a person instead of an embarrassment.”
Because you were kind to me.Cristo, my heart is going to break.
I try to remember those dinners, those casual interactions that seemed so meaningless at the time. Basic politeness, the kind of courtesy I’d show any family member. But to Ginni, starved for acknowledgment and acceptance, it clearly felt like salvation.
“And you were handsome,” he adds with characteristic honesty. “Not just physically, though you certainly are that. But the way you carried yourself, the quiet confidence, the way you never needed to prove anything to anyone. I wanted to be close to that kind of strength.”
“I’m not that strong, Ginni.”
“You are.” His voice is soft but certain. “You survived things that would have broken most people. You didn’t come from a privileged family, you built something meaningful from nothing. Everyone admires you, and your name now means something. You command respect without demanding it. That’s strength.”
The way he sees me is intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure. Not as the flawed, often ruthless man I know myself to be, but as some idealized version that exists only in his imagination. How can I possibly live up to that kind of devotion?
“What about now?” I ask. “Now that you know me properly, are you disappointed?”
“Disappointed?” He looks genuinely puzzled by the question. “Carlo, you’ve been everything I hoped for and more. Kind when you could have been cruel, patient when I know I’ve been difficult, protective even when you had every reason to hate me.”
“I should hate you,” I point out, though the words lack conviction.
“But you don’t.” It’s not a question. “And I think maybe that means something.”
The projector above us shifts from sunlight to sunset, painting our ceiling in shades of gold and pink. Another artificial close of day in our underground world, another marker of time that has no real meaning here.
“Tell me more,” I say, not ready for this moment of raw honesty to end.
