Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
"This isn't a good look for you!" I slam my palm again, harder this time. "Very 'unimaginative villain who skipped the creativity chapter in Evil Plans 101'!"
My voice is getting higher, more brittle with each sentence. The acoustics in here are making me sound like a shrill harpy, which only fuels my indignation. That single turn of the key keeps replaying in my head like a skipping record—one casual flick of his wrist erasing all my autonomy.
"What's next? A pit and a basket of lotion? Are you going to tell me it puts the lotion on its skin?" I kick the door, which is about as effective as kicking a mountain. "Did you take your villain cues from a BuzzFeed list of 'Top 10 Most Obvious Hostage Scenarios'?"
The fear is building underneath my rage, threading through it like poison. My breath is coming faster now, my palms damp against the unyielding door. I've gone from employee to prisoner in the span of a car ride, and there's no HR department to file a complaint with.
"You're Dracula with abs!" I shout, knowing it's ridiculous even as the words leave my mouth. "Voldemort on vacation! Cruella De Vil except male and somehow more high maintenance!"
I'm spiraling into absurdity now, but it feels better than silence. Better than acknowledging the weight of stone all around me, the darkness stretching below.
"Hannibal Lecter if he spent more time on his skincare routine! The Joker if he shopped exclusively at Tom Ford!"
A half-laugh escapes me, bordering on hysteria as I hear the nonsense tumbling from my lips. I'm panic-ranting to an empty stairwell, comparing a man who has literally killed someone to fictional villains like that somehow makes this situation less terrifying.
The banging slows, then stops. My palms sting. My throat feels raw. And beneath it all is the sinking certainty that Giovanni isn't coming back to open this door until he's good and ready.
Giovanni doesn't do rescues. He does prisons with better lighting and designer furniture. He does psychological experiments disguised as job opportunities. He does abandonment dressed up as character building.
My anger tangles with real fear now, creating something hot and tight in my chest. I stomp my sneaker against the cement platform, just to hear something I control in this stone tomb of silence.
The silence that follows my outburst is like the vacuum after a bomb detonation—dense, ringing, and somehow worse than the noise that preceded it. My own panting echoes back at me, distorted by the acoustics of the stairwell until it sounds like someone else's breath. Someone stalking me.
Thirty seconds of nothing but my own heaving chest and the blood pulsing in my ears. The hollow curve of the stairwell mangles every small sound I make, stretching sighs into moans, turning my shuffling feet into something larger, more ominous. Even my swallow sounds theatrical, like I'm auditioning for the role of Terrified Woman #3.
The worst part is the total isolation. I could scream until my lungs collapse, and the only audience would be these indifferent stone walls. No passersby to hear, no neighbors to bang on the ceiling, no 911 dispatcher to track my phone's GPS. Just me, locked in Giovanni's personal oubliette. How convenient to have a dungeon when you occasionally need to dispose of people who've seen too much.
CRACK.
My body launches upward like I've been tased, a yelp escaping before I can swallow it. I disguise it with a fake cough that probably convinces exactly no one, even though there's no one here to convince.
"Ahem. Just...clearing my throat. No big deal."
CRACK.
I freeze, tilting my head like a paranoid meerkat spotting a hawk. Or like a squirrel who's forgotten where it buried its panic attack. Every muscle in my body goes rigid as I try to pinpoint the source, but the acoustics in here are playing tricks, bouncing the sound from every direction at once.
CRACK.
The sound has a rhythm to it. Metronomic. Precise. Every couple of seconds, another sharp report cuts through the darkness, a tiny auditory blade slicing the silence.
CRACK.
My mind races through a catalog of absurd explanations, because absurdity is safer than whatever reality is waiting down those stairs.
It's a busted metronome, abandoned when Giovanni's childhood piano teacher fled in terror from his dead-eyed scales practice.
It's an IKEA project being assembled by the world's most methodical snail.
It's a woodpecker the size of Bigfoot, systematically dismantling the mansion's foundation one peck at a time.
Maybe Giovanni hired interns whose sole job is to slap wooden boards together every two seconds. "Entry-level position: Psychological Torture Assistant. Must be willing to perform repetitive tasks. No benefits."
CRACK.
Each theory more ridiculous than the last, my brain desperately spinning cotton candy logic around the bitter pill of reality. Because if I stop the sarcasm, if I actually take this seriously, I'll have to acknowledge that I'm locked in a stairwell with something making ominous noises, and the only person who knows I'm here is the same man who recently demonstrated how comfortable he is with murder.