THE MAFIA AND THE ARTIST
There would be a dripping sound, a dank, putrid smell, a dirt or concrete floor, a chill that wouldn’t leave the air, and heavy chains.
He’d not bothered to disabuse her of that notion. The scarier the dungeon was to her, the easier it would be to get her cooperation. In reality, the dungeon was none of those things. If what he’d been told by the servants who had gone to get her belongings was true, the dungeon was nicer than her apartment in the city had been. It was done in black and a tasteful deep red with occasional splashes of other colors like purples and greens and yellows. It had been an inside joke with his previous submissives that the dungeon was the color of death, blood, and br