Seven
1565 Words
Giovanni
Some nights, the house didn’t sleep.
Not because anyone was awake. But because the walls remembered.
Old houses had a way of holding on to things—memories, whispers, things you couldn’t name. Even when everything was quiet, it didn’t feel peaceful. It felt like something was listening.
Tonight was one of those nights.
I was the only one up. Or maybe the only one allowed to be.
Everyone else knew better. The hour before a Rite wasn’t for movement. It was for stillness. Reflection.
I poured a glass of scotch slowly, the way my father taught me. Two fingers, no more. No ice. Just the drink, the glass, and the silence.
The glass had a chip on the rim. My father never replaced it. He said it reminded him how fast something perfect could break. I never forgot that.
The study smelled like it always did—leather chairs, old books, firewood. The same painting still hung behind the desk. The same map. The one my grandfather marked up during the old wars. His pencil lines showed what used to be blood and borders.
I lit a cigar but didn’t smoke it. I let it burn in the ashtray. Let the scent fill the room. That was part of the Rite, too. The smell. The fire. The reminder.
When the hall clock struck midnight, I moved.
There was a hidden door in the study. Anyone who knew the house knew about it, but not how to open it. It was hidden in the bookshelf. Bottom shelf. Push the worn copy of Inferno, tilt it left. Count to three.
Click.
The door opened without sound.
I stepped inside.
The stairs were narrow and cold. Stone, rough in places. The kind of steps built a long time ago, meant to last longer than the men who walked them. Gas lamps lined the wall. No electricity. That was on purpose. My family believed electricity made you forget what was real. What came before.
I understood that.
At the bottom, the hallway turned. Then it opened into a room no blueprint showed.
We called it the Hall of Iron.
My grandfather gave it that name. Not because of the iron gate, but because of the discipline the place demanded. You didn’t enter unless you were ready.
Inside, three men waited.
My uncle Renzo. My father’s brother. Cold, sharp, loyal to tradition.
Don Vittorio, the family’s consigliere. Calm, always thinking.
And Elio. The last of the old generation. His hands couldn’t hold a gun anymore, but his words could still kill.
They stood around the table in the center of the room. No one sat. No one ever did. The table was thick wood, stained from time and heat and history.
In the middle of it was a case.
Velvet-lined. Closed.
I walked to the end of the table. The head. There was a carved G in the wood. My father once stood here. His father, too.
No one spoke yet. That wasn’t how this worked.
Renzo opened the case with care. Inside were three objects.
A silver blade.
A bone comb.
A white linen square stitched with our crest.
My breathing changed. Just a little. Not enough to notice unless you were me.
Renzo looked at me.
“Do you stand tonight as heir?”
“I do.”
“Do you take the Rite freely—not for glory, not for affection, but for blood and house?”
“I do.”
“Do you bind your name to hers?”
I nodded. “I do.”
Don Vittorio lifted the bone comb. It was ivory—hand-carved, old. The woman it came from wasn’t remembered for kindness. She was remembered because her betrayal burned an entire town.
He passed the comb to me.
“The first Rite,” he said. “The combing.”
I held it in both hands. I didn’t comb anyone, of course. That came later. On the wedding night. But the motion mattered. I practiced it in the air. One stroke. From scalp to end. Smooth.
In our family, we didn’t marry women.
We prepared them.
The comb went back into the case.
Elio stepped forward and lifted the blade. It was small and perfect. Never used. It had only ever touched silk.
He handed it to me.
“The second Rite,” he said. “The cutting.”
I nodded and copied the motion. Cutting an invisible braid. Above the table. Above years of history. I didn’t look at the wall behind me. I didn’t want to see the braids hung there. My mother’s was one of them.
The motion mattered. That was enough.
Then came the last.
Renzo held out the linen.
“The third?” he asked.
“The cloth,” I said.
He passed it to me. I folded it and pressed it to my chest.
“To speak no weakness. To wear no doubt. To give no part of her to the world but her name.”
They all said it with me. Voices low. Like a prayer.
Then it was done.
No one clapped. No one said anything else.
Renzo turned, opened a small drawer in the table, and pulled out a ring.
It was black iron. No gold. No shine. Cold. Inlaid with obsidian.
“This is not for beauty,” he said. “This is not for love. This is not for her.”
I looked him in the eye. “I know.”
He slid the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly.
The Rite was done.
I walked back up alone.
The hallway upstairs was quiet. A single lamp was still lit near the end. The south corridor was empty.
The guest room at the end of the hall had already been prepared. The bed made. The drawers filled with her things. The perfume chosen. The soaps ordered.
Everything was ready.
I stood there for a moment, looking down that hall.
Not because I missed her. Not because I loved her.
Because she didn’t know what she was walking into.
She would arrive as a bride.
But she wouldn’t stay one.
She would become part of this house. This name. This blood.
She would be marked. Quietly. Fully.
Not with chains.
With silence.
I turned and walked away.
Behind me, the house didn’t move.
It simply breathed.
I walked towards my room.
I didn’t even sit down.
I poured a drink, drank it all, then picked up my phone.
Come.
That was all I said.
She showed up twenty minutes later. Tight dress, heels, lips painted red. I didn’t say anything. Just stepped aside and let her in.
She walked past me like she knew what she was here for. She didn’t even bring a purse.
She stood by the bed, hands behind her back. Waiting.
“On your knees,” I said.
She dropped fast. Smooth.
I undid my belt and unzipped. My c**k was already getting hard.
She reached for it, wrapped both hands around the base and stroked slowly.
It thickened under her fingers. Got bigger, heavier. Veins showing up like ropes. She gave it one slow lick, then looked up at me.
I didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything.
She opened her mouth and took me in, lips wrapping tight around the head.
I let out a low breath.
She gagged a little when I pushed deeper, but didn’t stop. Her hands stroked what didn’t fit. Spit started to run down her chin.
She kept her eyes on me.
I grabbed the back of her head and made her take more. Held her there. Let her choke on it. Watched her struggle, eyes watering.
She pulled back, caught her breath, and went again. Faster this time.
Her hands moved like she owned it. Stroking me hard, jerking the base while her mouth worked the rest. Her throat got looser. Her rhythm better.
She was messy. Loud. Real.
I could’ve finished like that. Could’ve grabbed her head and emptied down her throat.
But I wanted more.
“Get up,” I said.
She stood. I turned her around and bent her over the bed.
Pulled her panties to the side.
She was soaked. I ran the head of my c**k through her folds, slow, teasing.
Then pushed in. All the way. No warning.
She gasped and grabbed the sheets.
I started to move. Hard.
She was tight. Warm. Wet.
I gripped her waist and f****d her like I had nothing left to lose.
The sound of my hips slamming into her filled the room. Skin on skin. Her low moans mixed with the sound of the bed creaking.
I didn’t kiss her. Didn’t ask her name.
I pulled her head back by the hair, leaned close to her ear.
“This is all you’re good for,” I said.
She moaned louder.
I kept going. Deeper. Rougher. Used her until I came.
Slow strokes at the end. Pushing everything inside her.
Then I pulled out, tucked myself in, and walked to the window.
It didn't take time for it to soften, barely two minutes.
She fixed her dress in silence.
Didn’t speak. Didn’t wait. Just left.
I didn’t look back.
I didn’t feel anything.
And in three days, I’d be married.
Made no difference to me.
A hole was a hole.
But hers…
Hers would be mine to break.
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