Beneath A Casanova {#1}

Part 9

Part 9

Reality came crashing in, and he struggled to find what was up and what was down. He struggled to take in a breath, but liquid flowed into his mouth, gushing all over him. He thrashed, feeling his arms and legs hit nothing at all. It was black everywhere, but he could taste the liquid pouring and overflowing down his throat. It had a metallic scent, a tangy, strange taste.

It felt like he’d been licking up a rusty pole.

He struggled to scream, but all he could do was to gulp and try his best to breathe while thrashing in his stationary position.

Drink. A voice insisted, and he reacted to it –for it was very literally the only thing he could do. Drink the disgusting tasting liquid pouring down his throat.

Good. Don’t stop. You are doing well, my son.

He didn’t stop, continuing on. But his mind churned out information after information. Son? His father was dead. He knew that. Giacomo Casanova died at the ripe old age of 73 in Bohemian territory. At that time, he had both grieved the death of a father, and heaved a sigh of relief at a controlling and womanizing man gone from his life.

Giacomo Casanova? Is it safe to assume that you are somehow acquainted to him?

He focused on the voice that was speaking in his mind as he gulped, trying his best not to gag. Who was this talking to him in his mind? Surely it was not his father. Giacomo must be enjoying himself in the Afterlife, enjoying sexual pleasures with curvaceous angels that he’d charmed.

You are the son of Giacomo Casanova? Do you have a name?

He thought that the voice was being awfully rude. Of course he had a name. Giacomo would be daft to not give his son a name. Rather, a Casanova had to have a name –a name that must be passed down generations. His name, thus, was his father’s name.

You mean to tell me that you are also Giacomo Casanova? Do I call you Giacomo Junior?

Much as that was true, he disliked the fact that he was living forever in his father’s shadow. Yes, he had inherited the same genes of womanizing, and he had the same set of in-born talents that his father had aided him in honing. But ever since he met Marietta, that set of talents had been put aside while he loved her. He, Dante Giacomo, would love Marietta and only her.

That is sweet of you, Dante. However, I regret to tell you that you must not see Marietta again. I am sorry, but it is for the safety of both you and your Marietta.

The voice was apologetic, and a flash of panic came through him. He choked on the blood, and spluttered, but by some miracle, the flood of metallic liquid stopped. He coughed and choked. He could not see Marietta again? How would he ever survive? No, he must. Dante resolved himself to see Marietta again. He hadn’t even told her how much he loved her, and how much she meant to him.

You cannot. Skalov will kill her and make you watch.

Skalov? He clenched his fists. Though Casanova men were usually better on the bed, Dante had taken basic self-defense lessons during his childhood by sparring with the neighborhood boys. Whoever this Skalov was, he wasn’t going to back down without a fight. Besides, he would never let Marietta die like that. Whatever would happen to their son?

Dear Gods, you have a son? This makes things even harder. Please, for the sake of your family, do not visit them again. Skalov is no ordinary neighborhood boy. Skalov has been killing even before you could crawl. Do not tempt him.