Chapter 40: Pills, Baby!!

I’m sitting outside Caterina’s office at the Casino, shifting uncomfortably in the plush leather chair. My casts are still on. They’ve started to itch beneath the plaster, a maddening sensation I can’t do shit about.

Without my daily cocktail of pain pills, my hands are screaming. Sharp, pulsating agony radiates from my fingers up through my wrists and into my forearms. But it’s not just the pain that’s bothering me. There’s something else, a restless, crawling sensation under my skin, a tension in my muscles that won’t ease no matter how I position myself.

‘Am I sick?’

The wall clock ticks by with excruciating slowness. Caterina’s been in there for over an hour with some business executive from New York. Through the frosted glass, I can see their silhouettes, Caterina’s tall, imposing figure, and the smaller, hunched shape of her visitor.

I tap my foot rapidly against the carpet, unable to keep still. My shirt clings uncomfortably to my back, and I can feel sweat beginning to bead on my forehead despite the Casino’s aggressive air conditioning.

Lara leans against the wall opposite me, her wild red hair loose today, cascading over her shoulders like spilled blood. Her blue eyes haven’t left me since Caterina deposited me in this chair with instructions to “be good.”

“Are you hot?” she asks suddenly, pushing off from the wall and taking a step closer. “You’re starting to sweat.”

I glare up at her, irritation flaring hot and sudden. “Relax. I’m fine,” I snap, the words coming out sharper than I intended.

Lara’s eyebrows shoot up, a dangerous smile spreading across her face. “Ooh, someone’s feeling brave today,” she purrs, crouching down until we’re at eye level. “Or stupid.”

I look away, focusing on the carpet pattern to avoid her creepy gaze. Finally, the office door swings open. A stern-faced woman in an impeccable navy suit strides out, her expression grim as she clutches a leather portfolio to her chest. She doesn’t spare me a glance as she speeds away.

“Adam?” Caterina’s voice calls from within the office. “Come in, baby.”

I stand up, joints stiff from sitting too long, and make my way toward Caterina’s office. Each step feels heavier than the last, my body simultaneously jittery and exhausted.

As I cross the threshold, Caterina’s crimson eyes find mine immediately. She sits behind her massive desk, backlit by the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of Boston’s skyline. Her cream-colored suit looks impossibly crisp despite the late hour, not a wrinkle or stain in sight.

Something strange happens as our eyes meet, a wave of relief washes over me, unexpected and unwelcome. The constant background buzz of anxiety that’s become my constant companion these past weeks suddenly quiets. My racing heart slows, my breathing steadies.

“There you are,” she says, her voice warm with affection. “I missed you.”

The realization hits me like a physical blow, the only time I don’t feel anxious lately is when I’m with her. My torturer has become my comfort. My captor, my sanctuary.

‘My life sucks.’

“Would you like to come sit with me for a while?” she asks, gesturing toward a plush leather couch nestled against the far wall of her office beneath a massive oil painting of the Boston Harbor.

“Yeah,” I reply, my voice rough with need, not for her, but for what she provides.

She rises from her desk and moves to join me as I sink into the soft leather. The couch dips beneath her weight as she settles beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body.

“Is there anything I can get you?” she asks, her tone knowing, almost smug as if she’s been waiting for this moment.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. “We forgot to do pill time this morning.”

Her perfect lips curve into a wide smile, triumphant and predatory all at once. “I was wondering when you’d mention that,” she says, crimson eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “I’m not sure you need them anymore.”

Panic surges through me, hot and immediate. “But my hands hurt so much,” I protest, unable to keep the desperation from my voice. The pain is real, sharp and insistent beneath the plaster, but it’s more than that, it’s the crawling sensation under my skin, the restlessness, the need for chemical oblivion.

“Okay then,” she concedes with practiced benevolence. She reaches for the side table where a small crystal dish sits, filled with an assortment of pills, white ovals, blue circles, yellow capsules, a rainbow of pharmaceutical escape routes. It’s as if she was prepared for me to ask.

She picks up a small white pill between her fingers, holding it up to the light like a precious gem. The afternoon sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows catches it, making it glow like it’s a diamond.

“I’ll give you one pill for every compliment you give me,” she says, her crimson eyes gleaming with cruel playfulness. “Genuine compliments only. I can tell when you’re lying.”

I stare at the pill, my entire being focused on that tiny white oval. The pain in my hands throbs in time with my racing heart, and the wriggling sensation under my skin intensifies. The need claws at my insides, desperate and raw.

“That’s actually pretty easy,” I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds.

Caterina’s perfect eyebrow arches, her expression caught between amusement and suspicion. “Then why don’t you compliment me?” she challenges, rolling the pill between her thumb and forefinger.

“Hmm,” I say, pretending to think deeply about it.

My mind screams in silent rebellion. ‘Because I hate you. Because you broke my hands with a hammer. Because you killed Candice. Need I go on?’

“You’re right,” I say, giving her a small shrug. “It is wrong I don’t compliment you.”

I offer her a genuine smile, the kind that reaches my eyes. Because this, at least, isn’t a lie. “You are easily the sexiest woman I’ve ever met in my life,” I say, my voice confident and clear.

Her eyes widen slightly, clearly caught off guard by the sincerity in my tone. For a moment, the mask slips, and I glimpse something almost vulnerable beneath her perfect exterior.

“Really?” she asks, the single word carrying more uncertainty than I’ve ever heard from her.

I nod, maintaining eye contact. “Yeah. It’s not even close,” I continue, warming to the topic. “The way you move, the way you dress, everything about you is incredibly sexy. It’s like someone asked me to draw the sexiest woman alive with a crayon, and then you walked in and made that drawing look like disgusting garbage.”

Her lips part slightly, a flush of genuine pleasure coloring her cheeks. She seems momentarily speechless, her usual composure slipping.

She places the pill on her tongue, crimson eyes never leaving mine. The ritual has become so familiar and intimate in its twisted way. She leans forward, and I meet her halfway. Our lips connect, and something unexpected happens. A wave of warmth washes over me before the pill even makes contact with my tongue.

She deepens the kiss, her tongue guiding the tablet into my mouth. The bitter taste barely registers anymore. My body responds with a Pavlovian rush of relief like my brain is rewarding me for the mere promise of what’s to come.

I swallow the pill, but I don’t pull away. I linger in the kiss, eyes closed, breathing in her scent. The drugs haven’t even hit my bloodstream yet, but already I feel the edges of my anxiety softening, my muscles relaxing.

‘I deserve this,’ I think hazily. ‘Any level of bliss in this hell is something I am warranted.’

Her hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheek with deceptive tenderness. When she finally pulls back, there’s something triumphant in her expression, like she’s won something I didn’t know we were competing for.

“Another compliment?” she offers, already reaching for a second pill.

I nod eagerly, the prospect of more pills overriding any remaining dignity.

I contemplate my next compliment, trying to think beyond the immediate physical need for more medication. The pain throbs insistently in my broken hands, but I force myself to focus, to be strategic.

“I think it’s incredible how driven you are as a person,” I say, my voice clear and steady. “You will go above and beyond, stopping at nothing to get what you want.”

‘Like killing a tired mother.’

Another not-lie. My voice sounds real even to my own ears, carrying the weight of genuine observation rather than desperate flattery.

Caterina tilts her head slightly, studying me with those unsettling crimson eyes. A flush of pleasure colors her cheeks, and she seems touched by my words.

“These are a lot better than what I expected,” she admits, twirling another pill between her fingers.

She places this second pill on her tongue, leaning forward with practiced grace. This time, I meet her halfway without hesitation, our lips connecting with familiar intimacy. Her tongue hugs mine as if they were long-lost lovers on a mission to alleviate my pain. I swallow eagerly, already anticipating the blessed relief that will follow.

When she pulls back, her eyes seem to glow with satisfaction. “Another?”

And so our game goes on and on for another four more rounds.

I lean back on the couch, the pills beginning to work their magic through my system. The familiar heat spreads from my core outward, dulling the sharp edges of pain radiating from my broken hands. The room takes on that hazy, dreamlike quality I’ve come to crave, colors more vibrant, textures more pronounced.

Caterina watches me with predatory eyes, her crimson gaze tracking every minute change in my expression. She leans closer. Her scent is intoxicating as it envelopes me completely. Her lips curve into that smile that’s equal parts seduction and threat, the one that makes my heart race despite everything I know about her.

“Get naked,” she commands, her voice dropping to that low register that bypasses my brain and speaks directly to more primal parts of me.

I laugh. “Cat, I wish I could,” I reply, lifting my casted hands helplessly. The massive white plaster encasements bump awkwardly against each other as I attempt to reach for my belt. “But I’m a little... handicapped at the moment.”

Her eyes darken with desire as she watches my clumsy movements. She slides closer, one hand moving to my thigh, fingers tracing patterns that send shivers through my drug-addled system.

“Let me help you then,” she purrs, her hand moving higher, teasing at the waistband of my pants.

Before she can go further, the intercom on her desk buzzes sharply, the sound cutting through our private bubble. Caterina’s head snaps toward it, irritation flashing across her perfect features.

“Ms. De Luca,” comes her secretary’s voice, professional and carefully neutral. “Luna Cruz is here to see you.”

The transformation is immediate and terrifying. Caterina’s entire body goes rigid, her face hardening into a mask of cold fury that makes my blood run cold despite the warmth of the medication. The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as her crimson eyes narrow to dangerous slits.

“Stay close, honey,” she says to me, her voice tight with barely contained rage. Then, looking towards the intercom, she responds with forced calm, “Send her in.”

Caterina doesn’t move from the couch. Instead, she shifts closer to me, one arm sliding possessively around my shoulders while her free hand begins to methodically smooth her already perfect blonde hair. Each stroke is deliberate, as though she’s preparing for battle rather than a business meeting.

I try to sit up straighter, the drugs making my movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Caterina turns her attention to me, her fingers combing through my hair with surprising gentleness. She smooths down errant strands, tucks pieces behind my ears, and adjusts my collar with the meticulous care of someone arranging a prized display.

“There,” she murmurs, her crimson eyes scanning my face with critical intensity. “Much better.”

“Remember,” she whispers, leaning close enough that her breath tickles my ear, “you don’t speak without my permission, and even then keep it brief.”

‘New rules?’

The door swings open without a knock.

Luna Cruz strides into the office like she owns it, her presence immediately filling the space with a chaotic energy that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. She’s tall and curvaceous, her tan skin glowing with vitality beneath the office lights. Her long black hair cascades freely down her back, untamed and wild compared to Caterina’s controlled perfection.

She wears a bright green Hawaiian shirt that should look ridiculous in this setting but somehow radiates menace rather than vacation vibes.

“Caterina!” Luna exclaims, her voice carrying an orchestra of malice. “How nice of you to see me without an appointment.”

Luna Cruz: