My grandfather’s mahogany desk faces me from across the room. The leather Chesterfield sofa faces it, where generations of Clemenza men sat to discuss business. The Persian rug beneath is the same one I used to play on while the grown-ups talked. Iknowit’s the same because I remember that worn patch—it’s where I used to drive my toy dump truck over andover until the threads wore down. Even the oil painting of a medieval village hangs on the wall. Dad once told me our Family originated there.
But it’s all wrong. The ceiling is too low. The walls are concrete, covered in some areas with what looks like professional soundproofing. The golden light isn’t sunshine; it comes from recessed fixtures, casting everything in a soft glow that feels like being sealed inside a beautiful, candlelit tomb.
And Nonno Lou’s study is just one area of this enormous basement.
In another, there’s a replica of the living room, where Nonna Mellie used to have her friends over to share tea and gossip. And in another, my grandparents’ four-poster bed scrapes the low ceiling.
Beyond that is my father’s bedroom…
And mine, too.
Every familiar room from the Park Avenue townhouse is represented here. It’s like someone dismantled it room by room and laid it out on one level. It’s dizzying and upsetting andstrange, an autopsy of my Family’s legacy, a museum curated by my captor.
What kind of hatred burns cold and long enough to fuel such obsession?
I turn away from the uncanny replica, but things only get worse. To the right, against the nearby wall, stands a king-sized bed with pristine white sheets, no pillows and no blankets, a heavy chain snaking from the wall above it, ending in a thick metal collar.
And there are darker things, things that make my bladder clench with apprehension. Shackles mounted to the wall. A metal fucking toilet like the kind I always imagined in jail cells. A glass-walled shower right there next to it.
“Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” Damiano asks.
“How…” I croak.
“I bought everything at your grandfather’s estate sale. Every piece of furniture, every painting, every fucking teacup. And Ikeptbuying up everything you Clemenzas were selling, as you started to circle the drain. Amazing the depths people will sink to when they’re desperate. But I guess you’ve discovered that yourself. Right, Caligula?”
I bolt.
Pure animal panic overrides every rational thought as I sprint for the elevator, feet slipping on polished concrete, slamming my palm against the panel over and over while Damiano laughs behind me.
“I told you, golden boy. It only responds to me.” His arm comes around my waist, lifting me off my feet like I weigh nothing at all. “Did you really think you could run from me?” He’s genuinely amused.Delighted. He carries me away from the doors as easily as a child, my feet kicking uselessly at his legs.
He takes me to the bed and throws me down on it. I scramble away, but he grabs a handful of my hair to yank me back, while in his other hand he lifts the heavy metal collar.
It doesn’t matter how much I fight. He’s stronger than I am. The metal is heavy as it closes around my neck, the weight draggingmy head down. But the psychological impact is much worse than the physical. As the lock clicks shut, reality crashes down.
I am this man’s prisoner.
And he’s been planning this for a very long time.
Damiano walks to a leather armchair positioned to face the bed. It’s the one from my grandparents’ bedroom. Now it’s Damiano’s throne. He takes the silver flask out of his back pocket before settling into the seat.
“Look around,” he says after a swallow. “This is your whole world now, golden boy.”
I try to slow my breathing, quell the panic. Take in what I can. The chain will allow me maybe ten feet of movement—enough to reach the toilet, the shower.
I can’t reach the dissected house. I can only look at it from afar.
I force myself to take in every detail of my surroundings: the chains, the bare concrete floor, the cameras mounted in the corners. The mini-fridge that Damiano reaches out with a lazy leg to kick open, showing me that all it contains are water bottles and vitamins. The dumbwaiter he points out, which is close enough for me to reach for meals sent down from above.
He’s thought of everything. Access to food. Vitamins. Hygiene. The soundproofing—I could scream until my voice cracked and no one would hear me. It’s the methodical, painstaking approach I’d expect from a serial killer.
“Well?” Damiano asks. “What do you think of your new home?”
I’m finally beginning to understand.
He plans to keep me here in this grotesque facsimile of my Family’s history. Keep me down here for the whole year.
Maybeforever.