Chapter 42: Ritalin Me This Batman

I’m leaning into Caterina’s side on her leather couch, my head resting against her shoulder as she flips through papers on the glass coffee table. The drugs have me floating in that perfect space between awareness and oblivion, where everything feels soft around the edges, but I can still follow what’s happening.

‘Caterina would make such a good Daedra.’

Her nails tap rhythmically against a stack of official-looking documents, the letterhead embossed with gold foil that catches the light. I’m not really paying attention until a word jumps out at me, printed in bold legal font across the top of one page: CONSERVATORSHIP.

My stomach drops. I lift my head slightly, squinting to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

“Cat,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I expected, “when you told Connor and his girlfriends that you had a conservatorship over me, that was a joke, right?”

Caterina turns to me, her crimson eyes crinkling at the corners as she laughs like I just asked the cutest question in the world. Her hand reaches up to stroke my cheek with maternal tenderness.

“Aww, honey, no,” she says, her voice warm with amusement. “I got those filed the day your wife sold you to me.”

I stare at her, trying to process what she’s saying. The documents on the table seem to mock me, their official seals and signatures confirming my worst fears. My eyes trace over phrases like “mental incapacity,” “appointed guardian,” and “financial control.”

“So you really do own me completely,” I say, the words falling from my lips in a defeated sigh.

Caterina’s expression shifts, something dangerous flickering behind her eyes. Her hand moves from my cheek to grip my chin, forcing me to look directly into those crimson depths.

“Don’t you love me?” she asks, her voice suddenly sharp as a blade.

I swallow hard, the phantom pain of hammers and broken bones flashing through my memory. The drugs aren’t strong enough to completely suppress the terror that rises in my throat.

“I do,” I say. The fear of the hammer is enough to make the words come out.

“Don’t you trust me?” Caterina asks, her voice softening as she releases my chin, her fingers trailing down to rest against my neck where my pulse hammers beneath her touch.

I stare at her, trying to find words that won’t trigger her rage but also won’t completely surrender what little remains of my dignity.

“I definitely think you’re acting in a way that you believe is in my best interest,” I finally say, the careful phrasing feeling like walking a tightrope above a pit of snakes.

Something flashes across her perfect features, a momentary crack in her composure that reveals the storm beneath. Her crimson eyes narrow slightly, lips pressing into a thin line.

“Oh,” she says, the single syllable carrying volumes of dangerous displeasure. “You don’t think it’s in your best interest?”

My chest tightens suddenly, breath coming in shallow gasps as the familiar sensation of panic claws its way up my throat. The room seems to shrink around me, the walls pressing inward as my heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. The conservatorship papers on the table blur and swim before my eyes, black text melting into white paper.

Without thinking, I lean forward, resting my head against Caterina’s chest. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat fills my ear, strong and even a counterpoint to my own frantic pulse. I close my eyes, focusing on that sound, letting it anchor me as the panic threatens to pull me under.

“Cat,” I whisper against the expensive fabric of her suit, “honestly, I’m scared, alright?”

I feel her body go completely still beneath me, her breathing halting for a moment before resuming at a quicker pace. Her hands hover uncertainly in the air before settling gently on my back, one sliding up to cradle the nape of my neck with unexpected tenderness.

When I glance up, her eyes are wide with surprise. She stares down at me as if seeing something miraculous and unexpected.

“Look at you,” she breathes, her voice filled with astonished delight, “jumping to your lover for safety.”

Her fingers thread through my hair, the gentle scrape of her nails against my scalp sending shivers down my spine. The panic recedes slowly, replaced by a confusing mixture of shame and relief. I should be horrified that I’ve sought comfort from my captor, but in this moment, all I feel is the blessed absence of fear.

“You’re right,” I mumble against her chest. “I came to you because I felt nervous.”

I lie like the genius I am. ‘I would never seek her out for comfort.’ I think to myself as I lean into Cat.

“It’s not like the conservatorship matters,” I say, the words flowing easily. “It’s not like I would even leave at this point.”

Caterina’s expression softens, a genuine smile spreading across her perfect features. Her hands cup my face with reverent tenderness, thumbs brushing against my cheekbones in soothing circles.

“That makes me so happy to hear,” she whispers, leaning forward to press a kiss to my forehead. The touch of her lips lingers, warm and possessive against my skin.

I glance around the opulent office, taking in the gleaming surfaces, the expensive artwork, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bustling casino floor below. A question bubbles up from somewhere in my drug-addled brain.

“Cat, why haven’t you named this casino?” I ask, the non-sequitur slipping out before I can filter it.

Her hands freeze against my face, her body going rigid beside me. Something flickers across her expression, confusion, then disbelief, then annoyance. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply as if summoning patience from some hidden reserve.

“Adam,” she says slowly, her voice carefully controlled, “how many times have you been here?”

I blink at her, genuinely puzzled by the question. My memories feel fragmented, disconnected, like pieces of different puzzles jumbled together in the same box.

“I think just the other day when we went to get pizza,” I reply, furrowing my brow with the effort of recollection.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, releasing my face and leaning back against the couch.

“You’ve been coming to work with me for weeks here,” she says, her crimson eyes studying me with clinical intensity as if trying to determine whether I’m lying or truly confused.

A chill runs through me, separate from the drugs, from the pain, from everything else. Have I lost time? Have entire weeks slipped through my fingers without me noticing?

“How long have my hands been in a cast?” I ask, suddenly desperate to anchor myself to some concrete timeline.

Caterina’s crimson eyes widen slightly, a flicker of something that might almost be concern passing across her perfect features.

“A little over a month, baby,” she says, her voice softening to that motherly tone that makes my skin crawl even as it soothes me. “The doctor says they’re healing well. We should be able to remove the casts in another few weeks, assuming you continue to be good.”

“It only felt like a few days for me,” I exclaim, genuine shock, making my voice crack slightly.

The room seems to tilt slightly around me, the expensive furnishings blurring at the edges as I try to process this information. A month. I’ve lost almost an entire month of my life to this drugged haze.

Caterina studies my face with that predatory intensity, her crimson eyes missing nothing as they track every minute change in my expression.

Caterina’s expression softens into something almost tender as she watches the horror dawn across my face. Her hand slides up to cup my cheek, her touch grounding me even as my mind races with the implications of this lost time.

“I’ll adjust your medication tonight, okay?” She says, her voice gentle as if speaking to a frightened child. “I need you to remember me, after all.”

“Wait,” I say, realizing I lost the plot. “What is the name of the casino?”

Caterina’s lips curve into a slow, indulgent smile that transforms her face into something almost girlish, a flash of genuine delight breaking through her usual calculated perfection.

“It’s called La Reale,” she says, her crimson eyes lighting up with pride. “It means ‘The Royale’ in Italian. This will be our legacy, Adam.”

She gestures toward the window, where the casino floor spreads out below us like a glittering sea. From this height, the gaming tables form intricate patterns, the movement of patrons and dealers creating a living mosaic of activity.

“The name is on everything,” she continues, her voice taking on that lecturing tone she uses when explaining something she thinks should be obvious. “The chips, the uniforms, the letterhead. There’s a fifteen-foot gold sign when you enter the main lobby.”

I stare at her blankly, trying to conjure any memory of this supposed signage. Nothing comes up despite suddenly seeing the branding all over the place.

“La Reale,” I repeat, testing the name on my tongue. “It sounds Spanish.”

“Adam, Come on, it’s literally the only casino in Boston,” Caterina says as if she’s trying to make her life’s work sound appealing to someone else on the playground.

I ponder for a moment, my drugged mind bouncing between thoughts like a pinball in an arcade machine. The conversation about the casino’s name suddenly seems unimportant, and a new question forms in my foggy brain.

“Hey, why did you end up getting a divorce from Tony Maserati?” I ask, genuinely curious about this mysterious ex-husband.

Caterina’s perfect eyebrows lift slightly. “Moretti,” she corrects me gently, her crimson eyes softening with something that looks almost like exhaustion. “Your ADHD is going crazy today, baby. You’re like a pinball machine.”

She sighs deeply, tucking a strand of her immaculate blonde hair behind her ear.

“His sister made a play for my territory in the name of ‘family,’” she explains, her voice dropping to that dangerous register that usually signals violence to follow. “So I had Lara torture her and send her back to the head of her family in pieces.”

The words hang in the air between us, horrific and casual all at once. I wait for the shock to hit me, for the disgust and terror to flood my system. But nothing comes. My emotional responses feel distant, disconnected, like I’m watching someone else’s reaction to a movie.

“Understandable,” I say, the word slipping out easily, naturally.

Satisfaction flickers across Caterina’s face. Her crimson eyes study me with renewed interest, as though I’ve passed some test I didn’t know I was taking.

“Come here,” she murmurs, opening her arms.

Her arms wrap around me, strong and secure, her scent enveloping me completely.

“We’ll have to get you on Adderall too.”

La Reale: