Page 29 of Filthy Little Fix
He also closes the door for me.
"I said I have hands," I say, louder, and he just gestures for me to follow him.
A golden pebble path. A lady trimming the leaves of a boxwood. A butterfly on the edge of the fountain. It would be domestic if it weren't for the guards scattered throughout the perimeter.
Luca opens the mansion door. Inside, of course, there are more guards—and, otherwise, it's a holiday resort. White marble, tall columns, ebony furniture, and velvet sofas. I grip my backpack strap as tight as I can. I don't understand.
Why am I here?
Luca leads me to a back room. It's less ostentatious than the rest of the house, with few—and small—grated windows, visible cameras, and robust locks. It has a simple bed against the wall, minimalist furniture like any ordinary bedroom. The bed is made, and the floor is clean.
I hesitate to enter. I don't know what's happening. Luca goes in first, looking up over his shoulder.
"What the fuck is this," I murmur.
"Your home," a voice says from behind me.
I recognize it. From my dreams, from my best memories. Dante. His shadow swallows me, and I see it emerge on the floor.
I turn to him.
He's not seething with rage. He looks disgusted, perhaps, tired. And there are no handcuffs. No bags over my head. Just an immaculate guest room in a ridiculously opulent mansion, with a tidy bed and no signs of blood or torture, with a fucking porcelain flower on the nightstand. A fucking home.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I say, incredulous. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be comfortable.
Dante approaches, and Luca closes the door behind us. A click. Is hereallyimprisoning mehere?
"It's simple," Dante says, and he gives me a look that promises things won't be simple. "You will be contained. Your ‘games' are over. Your ‘attacks' will cease. You will stay here until you fix the fucking mess you created, and any others that appear. And most importantly: you willnotgive me any more headaches, understood?"
"I… what?" I almost gape, with a half-failed, incredulous smile. He's not imprisoning me in a dungeon. He'sdomesticatingme. Giving me aroutine. Stuffing me into a velvet cage. This is worse thananythingI could have imagined.
"You're not here on vacation," Dante continues. "You're here because I need you where I can see you, where I can ensure you won't fuck up my life anymore. You won't have external internet access, except under supervision. Your movements will be monitored, and your communication controlled. And, unlike what you seem to enjoy, I have no patience for your perversions. You will not feel a fucking thing of what you want to feel here."
I clench my fists. My backpack slips from my shoulder and falls to the floor. The broken molar throbs. What changed? It'sa physical reminder of the violence Dante gave me, but that he's denying me now.Even that.What thehellchanged?
"You're… you're giving me a fucking room?" I can't control my voice. It comes out louder than intended, angrier. "You're locking me up in a fancy condo? AftereverythingI did, you give me ahome?"
Dante looks at me, and he almost seems satisfied. Of course. Giving me more of the same, more of my daily misery… is this how he wants to punish me in a way I won't like?
"Show me what's in your head." He points to a desk with a computer already on. "Let's work. And don't make me lose my patience."
I look at the room, at the made bed, at the computer.
The emptiness of a predetermined routine, of an imposed normal life.
This isn't what I wanted. This is worse than Chad's office.
I pick up the porcelain flower sculpture and hurl it at the wall. It shatters into several porcelain pieces, scattered on the floor with a sharp crack that makes Luca rest a hand on his holster. Dante stares at me with a frown, but I avert my gaze.
I worked as hard as I could for this. Forthis. To prefer my personal hell. To prefer going back to a fucking fern in a gray cubicle.
My jaw aches. My head spins.
I walk to the computer. I sit in the chair.
Nyx isn't truly here. It's just Leo. Tired of this milking shit.
The computer hums, innocent and gleaming. I look at it with sympathy.I wish I were like you, friend. Inanimate and empty-headed.
