CHAPTER 12

With another curse, Grant extended his hand and, stretching to the limits of his physical abilities, reached the remote and grabbed it. Grumbling under his breath, he went back to the armchair, plopped down on it, and wanted to turn the TV on, but the device failed to answer his command. Just my fucking luck, the man thought, anger mixed with frustration starting to boil inside him.

In a situation like that, when he was at home, Grant would have commanded that abomination his father forced him to marry to strip and would have let some steam off by beating him with the belt or turning him into a punching bag. Then, he would have ordered the freak to clean the blood up, stimulating him with a kick in the ribs; after all, he was to blame for the mess.

Fucking bastard. I hope you are rotting in hell now . Grant slammed his fist against the armrest of his seat, this time his anger directed to his father, who forced him into that odious marriage. The bloody old man loved that abnormal weirdo more than he loved me, his own flesh and blood, he bitterly thought.

From the moment Bailey stepped into his father's office three years earlier, all Grant heard was how brilliant, sharp-minded, innovative the new young employee was. In his very rare moments of sincerity, the man admitted to himself he was mediocre at best; financial analysis and transactions didn't present any appeal to him, the only things he was interested in being the wild frat parties.

His cold-hearted, strict father didn't lose any opportunity to tell Grant how disappointed he was in him. The sermon invariably continued with an enumeration of his many flaws and ended with the old man singing praises to Bailey's qualities. The idea of the marriage came as a conclusion of one of those sermons, and Grant didn't have any saying in that; it didn't sound like a suggestion or a request, but rather like an ultimatum.

The sound of a key turned into the lock put an abrupt end to the man's trail of thoughts, making him look at the door. Maybe they found out about me and formed a search party, Grant said to himself, his heart starting to beat faster. However, a few seconds later, he deflated in disappointment as those who kidnapped and brought him to this goddamn room stepped inside. A third guy, who had never been there before, came shortly after, closing the door behind him.

Like each time his captors came to "visit" him, Grant studied the two. The uptight one, with facial hair, cold, grey eyes, and lips pressed in a thin, white line, always wearing a three-piece suit, scared the hell out of him. The other one, taller, clean-shaven, with long hair flowing freely down his shoulders and almost reaching his waist, was also intimidating, but not as much as his partner.

Over the time he was kept in that room, Grant wondered who had ordered them to kidnap him. No matter how long and how intense he thought, the man couldn't find anyone in his entourage who would have wanted to get rid of him by using that method. All of them were respectable financiers and business people, with no connection in the underworld.

The fact that the two communicated between them in a language Grant didn't understand made things even more complicated. In the rare occasions they used English, the stern, scary-looking man used the honorary "boss" when speaking with the tall weirdo, but the captive thought that it was the other way around and, for a reason known only to them, reversed the roles when they were in his presence.

Grant turned his attention to the third guy, the one he had never seen before. He was carrying a small briefcase, which he put on the table in the corner of the room. Helped by the other two, he moved the piece of furniture and the two plastic chairs close to the prisoner's armchair, then went next to the door and leaned against the wall, his body slightly tense, ready to attack whoever would try to break in.

The long-haired captor opened the small briefcase and extracted from it a neatly stacked pile of documents, which he put on the table and pushed it to Grant. From the inside pocket of his suit coat, the other one pulled a pen out, putting it across the papers. Both men sat on the chairs and looked at the prisoner in silence for a long moment, then the long-haired one started to talk.

"I'm Brian Cavallieri, the Wisdom Keeper, number two in the hierarchy of The Council of The Ten, and this is Luca Rinaldi, my right-hand man, and The Council's Consigliere." The man stopped for a few seconds, his unique eyes piercing into the captive's soul. "The only reason why I revealed our identities to you is that you won't live long enough to tell anyone about us. By tomorrow, you'll be dead, but first you have to sign these papers."

The librarian pressed the tip of his index finger on the pile of documents, making Grant look at them. "So, the goddamn abomination wants a divorce? Did he finally drop the act and stopped pretending he was in love with me? Did he finally find someone to fill his ass and whatever other holes he has in that disgusting body of his with cock?" The man spat one hateful word after another.

"Just sign the papers." Brian sighed in annoyance and rolled his eyes. "You're going to die anyway, but how fast or slow is on you."

"I don't want to sign anything." Grant spoke defiantly, pushing the stack of papers away. "What are you going to do, then?" He smirked evilly.

"Hey, librarian, Dominic can take care of the problem." Luca shrugged, his voice flat. "Let's slice the motherfucker."

"I want him to sign them." Brian offered the Sicilian a grin. "I'm stubborn that way." He relaxed into the chair. "Why don't you show him Bailey and Lennox together?"

"My pleasure…boss." Luca took the phone out and played a clip of Bailey and Lennox making passionate love. "Stephanie installed a mini-camera in her sibling's bedroom for…research purposes." He explained, a tinge of amusement in his voice.

"That's…that's sick!" Grant tried to turn his head in disgust, but the librarian made him watch. "I don't want to watch this garbage anymore," he yelled, insanely jealous when Bailey cried Lennox's name in ecstasy.

"Oh, this jealousy of yours." Brian tsked and slowly shook his head. "You hated Bailey because you couldn't have their sister, is that right?"

"Yes, I detested that abomination." Grant spat hatefully again. "How can someone in their right mind like to sleep with something like that?" His voice changed, becoming smooth and sickly sweet. "Stephanie, on the other hand…she was perfect. I would have fucked her day in and day out."

Brian could barely contain his anger. "Sign the papers or Luca will start and he'll keep you alive for weeks." He balled his hands into fists and gritted his teeth.

"Let's say I sign the damn papers." Grant changed the approach, hoping he could negotiate his way out of that situation. "What then?"

"You die faster. Suffer less," Brian answered laconically. "Quick or weeks. Your choice." He shrugged, then suddenly became irritated. "You are testing my patience. You don't want me to choose."

"Fine, let's get it done." Grant put an angry signature on the documents, then pushed them away. "Tell the abomination I wish I could kill him." His voice was resentful and bitter.

Brian put the stack of papers in the briefcase. "Was that so hard?" he asked in a mocking voice, then gestured to the Sicilian. "Go ahead, my friend."

"You should be honored I'm using this dagger on you." Luca smirked and started to play with the tip of his knife on Grant's skin. "It belonged to my father, and his father before him, who got it from his father, and so on."

"Best knives in this world." Brian gave the Sicilian an affectionate look.

"Thank you…Sir." Luca dipped his head. "My ancestors would be happy to hear you say that." He then turned his attention to the prisoner, scrunching his nose in disgust. "Tanner will get into the shower to wash the stench off you. I don't want my blades to be soiled by the dirt on your skin." The Sicilian pressed his lips together. "Remove your clothes. I don't want to touch you more than necessary, and Tanner is not your babysitter."

Grant nodded in understanding and started to undress, his heart thumping frantically against his ribcage. The bastards are bluffing, he said to himself. They are going to set me free. That's why they want me to take a shower. Maybe I'll get clean clothes, too, he continued the thought. I bet they have a change in the car and will bring it while I'm in the shower.

Meanwhile, Tanner got rid of his clothes, too, and was standing stark naked, waiting for Grant, who was scanning him with greedy, appreciative eyes. His patience running low, the guard released the captive's ankle from the cuff and shoved him to the small shower stall in the furthest corner of the room, where the chain didn't allow him to reach.

Tanner turned the water on and pushed Grant into the shower, stepping inside behind him. In a rough voice, the guard ordered the prisoner to put his hands on the tile wall, and he started to rub him all over with a soapy washcloth. Once he was done, the man rinsed the other one and gestured to him to get out of the shower, while he went back into the multi-purpose room, leaving droplets of water behind.

He returned shortly after with a towel he threw to Grant, who, instead of being bothered by the roughness of the fabric, was ecstatic. That's it, he said to himself, drying the water off his body. The clean clothes are in the room. I'll be a free man soon. His heart started to beat faster at the thought, the anticipation making his pulse spike.

But all Grant's hopes were shattered by the sight that greeted him once he was back in the room.In his absence, the two installed a pulley system on the ceiling, and they cuffed him in no time, with expert moves, forcing him to stand straight, hands above his head, stretched to the maximum, each muscle in his body starting to hurt.

The two, Brian and Luca, were shirtless now, and in spite of his dire situation, Grant couldn't help himself from staring at them in appreciation. Well-toned, sculpted muscles flexed under their skin with every move, their torsos, arms, and backs littered with scars of all shapes and sizes. Forgetting for a moment about his desperate predicament, the man in chains wondered how the two got the wounds.

Then, a few seconds later, Grant's gaze landed on the long, narrow, black box placed in the middle of the table, and his eyes widened in horror. He remembered seeing a similar one in his father's ancient weapons collection; it contained nine blades of different shapes, grouped in three compartments.

Grant finally accepted the reality he obstinately rejected until that moment: in a few hours, or even earlier, he was going to be dead. It took a while for his brain to process the information, but finally it did, and the man went numb. The man wanted to yell in protest, throw insults at the two, tug against the restraints, but he couldn't; it was like he watched a movie, knew the ending, didn't like it, but couldn't do anything to change it.

Luca got down on one knee, brought his hands together and, after staying like that for a few seconds, picked a blade. With a dip of his head, he offered it to Brian, who accepted it with a smile, then, going back to the table, chose one for him. An indecipherable expression on his face, he headed to where Grant was chained, when the weight of a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

Luca turned around, his stormy-grey eyes meeting Brian's blue and brown ones, the mix of lust and fierceness in them making him weak in the knees. Lowering the hand holding the blade, the long-haired man used the other one to cup the back of Luca's head and captured his soft, sensual lips in a thirsty, demanding, soul-searing kiss that left the Sicilian breathless.

The response was equally as passionate, a combination of roughness and sweetness, rain embracing the desert's scorched soil. When they finally broke the kiss, greedily gasping for air, the two men looked each other in the eyes. In life and beyond, forever partners and lovers.