Page 1 of Map of Pain
Chapter one
Pathetic, desperate gratitude...
Nick
The truck bed creaked under Nick’s shifting weight, metal ridges digging into his spine. But also—impossibly soft Egyptian sheets caressed his fevered skin, two-thousand thread count silk that had never existed in this rust-eaten sanctuary. The conflicting sensations made his skull swim. Reality bled at the edges, six months of infection and exhaustion finally winning their war against his mind.
He blinked. Corrugated truck ceiling. Blinked again. Crystal chandelier.
The stench of gasoline from his latest wound treatment mingled with phantom Chanel Bleu—expensive, distinctive, Gianmarco’s signature cologne that had once saturated every surface of the penthouse. Nick’s stomach lurched as his brain fought to separate past from present. Wind whistled through gaps in his makeshift tarp roof, but underneath that sound, piano notes floated. Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major.Gianmarco’s favorite for quiet evenings when the screaming stopped.
Nick’s fingers flew to his throat. The scar pulled tight under his touch.Not real. Not there.
The fever dragged him under.
City lights gleamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting geometric patterns across Gianmarco’s immaculate white kitchen. Nick’s fingers—all ten still attached—trembled against marble countertops. His heart thundered against his ribs, a caged animal desperate for freedom that waited just beyond the front door. Twenty-three steps away. He’d counted them obsessively for weeks.
The refrigerator hummed its quiet song. Nick’s bare feet made no sound on polished concrete as he edged toward sanctuary. The door gleamed like salvation itself.
“Going somewhere, kitten?”
Nick froze. Gianmarco’s voice materialized behind him—silk wrapped around razor wire. Never heard him approach. Never did.
“I just—”The lie died in Nick’s throat.
Gianmarco stepped into view with unhurried grace. Dark hair perfectly styled, suit unwrinkled despite the early hour. Magazine-cover perfect. Nick backed away until the door pressed against his spine, solid as a coffin lid.
“I was thinking we might order in tonight.”Gianmarco’s tone remained conversational, discussing weekend plans rather than punishment.“Perhaps from that Thai place you enjoyed last month.”
Nick’s knuckles scraped the doorknob. Locked. Always locked.
Gianmarco closed the distance. Cool fingers brushed Nick’s cheek with impossible tenderness.“Oh, kitten. We discussed this. You promised to be good.”
Disappointment. Worse than rage. Nick’s knees buckled.
“I’m sorry—I won’t—please—”
“Shh.”Gianmarco pressed one finger to Nick’s lips.“Come now. You know what happens next.”
The kitchen island transformed. Surgical tools arranged in perfect alignment on sterile white cloth—scalpel, forceps, clamps, gauze. Gianmarco positioned each implement with reverent precision, movements methodical as prayer.
“Please.”Nick’s voice cracked. Tears carved hot tracks down his cheeks as Gianmarco secured his wrist to the countertop with silk restraints that felt like the gentlest noose.“I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be good. I won’t try again.”
“I know you mean that now.”Gianmarco selected the scalpel, angling it to catch the warm glow of recessed lighting.“But pain teaches us. Pain helps us remember. This will help you become who you’re meant to be.”
The blade kissed the the top knuckle of Nick’s pinky finger. Precise. Clinical. Loving.
Nick screamed until his voice shattered.
Gianmarco worked with surgeon-like focus, face serene as he separated flesh from bone. Blood pooled on white marble, stark as paint on canvas. When it was finished, he cleaned the wound and wrapped it in pristine bandages with the care of a devoted nurse.
“There now.”Gianmarco wiped tears from Nick’s face with his thumbs.“All finished.”
He gathered Nick’s trembling body against his chest, cradling him like something precious and fragile. Strong fingers stroked through Nick’s hair, gentle circles against his scalp that felt like absolution.
“Good boy. You took that so beautifully. I’m so proud of you.”
The words shattered what remained of Nick’s resistance. Gratitude flooded him—pathetic, desperate gratitude for this scrap of kindness after such exquisite agony.
