Page 82 of The Wrong Man

Before I can form any kind of response, footsteps thunder down the hallway. Dante bursts through the doorway, looking more rattled than I’ve ever seen him. His shirt is untucked, his hair disheveled, and there’s genuine worry etched into his features.

“Ginni!” The name comes out sharp. A warning.

The pretty boy pouts. Actually pouts, lower lip pushing out in an expression of exaggerated disappointment.

“I was introducing myself,” he says, his voice carrying a slight Italian accent. “Because it’s rude not to. You’ve been hiding him away in here and I was curious.”

Dante sighs heavily. His shoulders relax, then he pinches the bridge of his nose. For a moment he looks less like a terrifying mafia torturer and more like a man with a headache.

“Dylan, this is Ginni, my apprentice.” He gestures between us with obvious reluctance. “Ginni, this is Dylan, my... guest.”

Guest. That’s a new one.

Ginni’s eyes light up with interest. “Guest,” he repeats, drawing the word out like he’s tasting it. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Ginni.” Dante’s voice has dropped to something dangerous. “We have work to do.”

For a moment, Ginni looks like he might argue. Then he shrugs one elegant shoulder and turns toward the door.

“Nice to meet you, Dylan,” he says over his shoulder. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

Then he’s gone, sauntering down the hallway like he owns the place. Dante follows, pausing just long enough to give me a look I can’t interpret before pulling the door closed behind him.

I stare at the empty doorway.

What the fuck?

My heart is still racing, though I’m not sure anymore if it’s from fear or confusion or something else entirely. I replay the encounter in my mind, trying to make sense of it.

Ginni. Dante’s apprentice. Pretty as a picture and apparently comfortable enough to wander into my room in the middle of the night wearing practically nothing.

Apprentice in what, exactly? Torture? Is that pretty boy in the torture chamber right now, learning how to make people scream?

The thought is disturbing on multiple levels.

But what disturbs me more, what I really don’t want to examine too closely, is the hot twist of something in my gut when I think about Ginni’s delicate features and huge dark eyes.

He’s beautiful. Objectively, undeniably beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes people stop and stare. The kind of beautiful that probably gets him whatever he wants.

Is he more than Dante’s apprentice?

The question slithers into my mind and won’t leave. They work together. Ginni seems comfortable around Dante, comfortable enough to sass him and pout at him and wander around his flat half-dressed. And Dante... Dante looked worried when he came rushing in. Protective.

What exactly is going on in the torture chamber?

I shouldn’t care. I definitely shouldn’t care. Whatever Dante does with his apprentice is none of my business. I’m a prisoner, not a... not a anything. Not anything that would give me the right to feel this ugly, churning sensation in my stomach.

This isn’t jealousy. It can’t be jealousy. That would be insane.

I flop back against the pillows and stare at the ceiling until morning.

Sleep doesn’t come.

Breakfast is a stilted affair.

Dante looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes and a tension in his shoulders that speaks to a long, difficult night. He’s made coffee and toast, simple fare that he’s eating mechanically, without apparent enjoyment.

I pick at my own toast and try to think about anything other than Ginni.