I peer up at him to gauge his reaction, but he only smiles softly. He knows already. Of course he does. “I’m glad Anthony and your Sir are looking out for you. I brought you here because I thought this might be a restorative place for you. I wanted you to make friends so you might have a support system besides Silvio and myself, so that when I told you, you’d have people you could talk to.”
“I have Rebekah,” I remind him.
“And I’m grateful for her wisdom. You’ve grown a lot here, Giovanni, and I’m proud of all the risks you’ve taken. The fact that I didn’t tell you reflects poorly on me, not you. And you have every right to be angry and feel betrayed. I am truly very sorry. I’d like to try to earn back your trust if you’ll let me and if you’re ready.”
“I’d like that too. I don’t like being mad at you.”
“No, me neither.” He chuckles and says, “Quite frankly, it’s terrifying.”
I marvel at how alike we are.
The next dayMaster dotes on me hand and foot with breakfast in bed and a morning blowjob and leisurely, cum-flavored kisses. I want to feel pampered after all the bad feelings that have been circulating between us, and this is one of the ways in which Master shows he appreciates me. It also gives me the opportunity to ask more questions about his diagnosis and what we can expect.
“It’s not going to be good,” Master says. “I’m taking medication to slow the neural dystrophy, but I’ve already begun feeling some of the effects.” He goes over them with me, all the things I’ve noticed too—clumsiness, slurred speech, lapses in memory, and tremors. “Eventually it’ll get so that I can’t talk or walk. Hopefully it won’t be too long after that.”
We’re in the steam room, just two of us when Master says this, then drifts off, contemplating his own mortality. I take his foot in my hands and begin massaging it.
“That feels nice,” he murmurs. “But I’m supposed to be taking care of you today.”
“Let me.” We sit in silence for a while and then I ask, “Are you scared?”
“Yes, but not so much of death itself. More the lead up to it. I don’t want you to see me that way—weak and sick. And I worry for you,tesoro. It’s been you and me for the past four years. We’ve become very close. It’s going to be hard.”
Master keeps saying this to me as a warning, and I tell him again, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Master cups my chin so that I will look at him. “I don’t want you to go anywhere either, but I’d understand if you needed to get away for a little while. Sir can go with you too. You two could take a trip on his boat.”
I set my shoulders and attempt to quell my anger at having to repeat myself. “Please do not suggest that to me again.”
He nods and sighs in acquiescence. “All right. I won’t.”
We’re in bed now,enjoying a lazy afternoon. Master touches me idly as he sometimes does, letting his fingers drift over my skin and tracing the lines of muscle and bone. After a while of this tranquil silence, he says, “There’s something else I should tell you.” I turn my head toward him and wait for him to continue. “Those men who raped you at the party you don’t remember…” I nod, my stomach clenching. “I rounded them up and had one testicle surgically removed from each of them. Dr. Greyson helped.”
I lie there in stunned silence, searching his face to see if he’s fucking with me, but this is not something he’d bring up for fun. “How did you…”
Master gives me a look. “It’s what I do, Giovanni.”
In my mind all of them, even the ones I know, are shapeless blobs with mocking faces. Sometimes I hear them taunting me in sickly sweet tones, but I don’t know if that’s really what happened or if I’m only imagining it. Now, I must consider another scenario, where they are the victims, likely strapped down and terrified, conscious or not. Did Dr. Greyson use anesthesia? Knowing him, it was probably done to the letter, but does their punishment fit the crime? Is this justice or vengeance?
“Why did you do that, Master?” I ask in a way that sounds like a plea.
“Someone needed to teach them a lesson,” he says and strokes along my jaw. “Not to touch what doesn’t belong to them.”
How is it that word never got around to me? Probably because I removed myself from that scene entirely. “How many were there?’
“Ten and one who filmed it. He got the same treatment.”
Ten, a nice round number, and one who recorded it for posterity. I stare up at the ornate crown molding of Master’s bedroom and feel an immense weight on my chest, like a gargoyle is roosting there, digging its talons into my flesh. “There was a video?” I ask shakily.
“Yes.”
“Did you watch it?”
“Only to confirm their identities.”
“Fuck.” I put both hands over my face while Master rubs my chest, easing some of the crushing pressure. We lapse into silence while I process this new information. I’m most upset that Master witnessed it.
“Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?” I ask, even while knowing the answer.
