“Couple of days ago,” he says slowly, his voice careful now. “Why are you... Cristo, Carlo, you look like someone just told you your mother died.”
Because that’s exactly what it feels like. Like something vital and irreplaceable has been ripped away from me, leaving nothing but a gaping wound where my heart used to be.
I try to pull myself together, to find some rational explanation for my reaction, but all I can think about is Ginni alone in a cell somewhere. Ginni surrounded by criminals who won’t understand his sensitivity, his gentleness, his complete inability to defend himself against the kind of casual violence that permeates places like that.
“What was he arrested for?” I manage to ask.
Marco’s expression grows even more guarded. “He stabbed a policeman.”
The bottom drops out of my world entirely.
Ginni. My beautiful, gentle Ginni who spins gracefully across the floor in wedding dresses. Ginni who secretly sings opera. The boy who creates stunning art. Who cries at nightmares and when the lights go out.
That Ginni stabbed someone.
“That’s impossible,” I say flatly. Even though I’ve seen his knife collection. Seen how professionally he sharpens each blade.
“I was there,” Marco replies. “Saw it happen. He walked up to a constable outside Harrods in broad daylight and put a kitchen knife between his ribs. No warning, no provocation. Just... did it.”
I sink back into my chair, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight. This doesn’t make sense. Nothing about this makes sense. Ginni doesn’t have it in him to hurt anyone, let alone attack a stranger for no reason. Abduction, yes, actual grievous bodily harm? That’s not his style.
Unless it wasn’t for no reason.
Unless it was for a very specific reason. A calculated decision made by someone who wanted to be arrested, who needed to be locked away somewhere his family couldn’t reach him. Someone who was trying to escape a situation that had become unbearable.
Fuck. I was so close to getting him out. Days at most. The Torrini family mansion is a fortress, but one of the maids just needed a little more incentive to leave the main gate unlocked and the cameras off.
I wanted to whisk Ginni away and leave no trace. No way for his family to ever find him. I wanted him to be able to settle down and never have to be moved again. I wanted it to look like I had nothing to do with it, because there is no rational answer to why I suddenly need Ginni to be in the very best care that money can buy.
I thought I had time. Time to do it my way. Time to hide the truth. I should have known I was being a fucking idiot.
“When are you getting him out?” I ask.
Marco shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “It was in broad daylight, Carlo. In view of dozens of witnesses and CCTV cameras. It would be tricky as hell to get him off, and...”
“And?”
“Papa thinks prison is the best place for him.”
The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. For a moment, I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t process the casual brutality of that statement.
Prison. They think Ginni belongs in prison.
Beautiful, fragile, damaged Ginni who needs silk pajamas and expensive cologne and someone to tell him he’s precious. In prison with hardened criminals who will see his beauty and his vulnerability and his complete inability to protect himself as an invitation to destroy him.
“Prison?” I snarl, the word tasting like poison in my mouth.
Marco nods grimly. “He’s clearly having another breakdown. Maybe being locked up will force him to accept treatment, to get the help he needs.”
Help. They think prison is help. They think putting him in a cage with predators is somehow going to fix what’s miswired inside him instead of shattering him completely.
I force myself to take a breath, to think rationally. “Surely a psych evaluation will send him somewhere else? A hospital, proper treatment facility?”
Marco shrugs with heartbreaking indifference. “He passed. Declared mentally competent to stand trial. Which means he’s going to be processed like any other criminal.”
The casual way he delivers this information, like he’s discussing the weather instead of condemning his own brother to hell, sends a wave of rage through me so pure and violent I can barely see straight.
Before I realize I’m moving, I’m on my feet again, my hands fisting in Marco’s expensive jacket as I slam him back against the wall behind his chair. The sound of his back hitting the brick is drowned out by the music, but I can see the shock and fear in his eyes as my face hovers inches from his.
