Carlo
The wine glass hovers at my lips. I can smell something wrong. Not just the rich, complex notes of the Barolo, but something else underneath. Something chemical. Bitter.
My blood turns to ice.
“I don’t want to drink right now,” I say carefully as I put the glass back down. “Actually, I’m not feeling great. Think I might be coming down with something.”
Ginni’s face crumples with immediate concern. “Oh no! Are you feeling nauseous? Do you have a headache? I could get you some paracetamol, or maybe some ginger tea?”
“Just not hungry,” I say, eyeing the beautiful carbonara with new understanding. “Sorry, I know you worked hard on this.”
“But you have to eat something,” Ginni insists, his voice taking on that edge of desperation again. “You need to keep your strength up. Here, just a few bites?”
He lifts the fork toward my mouth, and I turn my head away. “Really, I can’t. My stomach is too unsettled.”
Ginni sets the fork down with exaggerated care, but I can see the frustration building in his eyes. The way his hands are starting to shake again, the manic brightness returning to his expression.
“Well, I suppose I should have some then,” he says with forced lightness, reaching for his own wineglass. “Can’t let it go to waste.”
I watch in horror as he takes several sips of the drugged wine, his throat working as he swallows. “Ginni, don’t...”
But he’s already setting the glass down, licking his lips with satisfaction. “Mmm, that really is extraordinary. Papa has excellent taste in wine, even if he never appreciates it properly.”
My heart is hammering against my ribs. How much did he drink? How long do I have before whatever he put in there takes effect? I need to keep him talking, keep him distracted from the fact that I haven’t touched anything.
“You’re right about your father,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. “He’s always been more about collecting than actually enjoying.”
“Exactly!” Ginni’s eyes light up, pleased that I understand. “He treats everything like a trophy. Wine, art, even his children. Things to be displayed when convenient and hidden when not.”
He takes another sip of wine, smaller this time, and I feel a flicker of hope. Maybe it won’t be enough. Maybe whatever dose he calculated was meant to be the full glass, and if I distract him, all will be well.
But I can already see something shifting in his posture. A looseness around his eyes, a slight delay in his movements. Whatever drugs he dissolved in that wine are working fast.
“I should tighten your cuffs, and the chains,” he says suddenly, though his words are slightly less crisp than usual. “Make sure you’re comfortable for dinner. And maybe I can help you drink, the way I used to. You always liked that.”
Fuck. If he tightens the restraints now, if he realizes how loose they’ve become, I’ll have no chance of getting free once the drugs take effect.
“Come here first,” I say softly, putting everything I have into making my voice gentle and loving. “I want to kiss you.”
Ginni’s face transforms with pure joy. “Really?”
“Really. You’ve gone to so much trouble for this beautiful meal. I want to show you how much I appreciate it.”
He moves the lap tray to the bedside table, and then practically floats closer to me, all thoughts of chains apparently forgotten in the face of romantic possibility. When he’s close enough to touch, I cup his face in my hands.
“You’re so beautiful,” I tell him, and the terrible thing is that it’s true. Even drugged, even planning our mutual destruction, even completely unhinged, he’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I kiss him with everything I have. Not the desperate lust of the last few days, but something gentler. Something that tastes like goodbye even though I can’t let myself think of it that way. His lips are soft and warm and taste like wine and sleeping pills and years of accumulated sadness.
Ginni melts against me, making that small sound of contentment that always goes straight to my heart. His hands come up to tangle in my hair, but the movement is sluggish now, uncoordinated.
I deepen the kiss, holding him close, feeling the exact moment when the drugs finally take hold. His body goes limp against mine, his breathing deepening into the rhythm of artificial sleep.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper against his hair, even though he can’t hear me anymore. “I’m so fucking sorry, Ginni.”
I ease him down onto the pillows, arranging him carefully so he looks peaceful rather than unconscious. His face in sleep isso young, so vulnerable, all the manic energy replaced by an innocence that makes my chest ache.
My hands are shaking as I check his pulse. Strong and steady, thank Cristo. Whatever dose he took, it wasn’t enough to be dangerous. Just enough to knock him out for a few hours.
