It was a luxurious heritage house constructed during Manaus’s economic boom of the 1920s. Thorne had always considered it sufficient. Livable. An adequate venue for parties or dinner with guests— —the ones he didn’t want dead. The house was three floors of many rooms, including a ballroom, an indoor swimming pool, and a library dedicated to botany and horticulture. There was also a cellar. An ancient dungeon filled with rare and priceless bottles of champagne. A dark, isolated, subterranean refuge. A place filled with sparkling sophistication—and startling savagery. It was here in this cellar that Eden awoke—his head pounding and his body racked with pain—to find himself suspended by chains. His hands were shackled and hoisted high above his head. He was completely naked, his body awash with sweat and seeping blood. Through one red, swollen eye he saw the handsome Gael Zagallo grinning at him, his own shirtless torso gleaming with sweat, his wet lips twisted in a satisfied grin.
