26
I’m floating in green. Not the forest green of trees, but the specific shade of Giovanni Bavga’s eyes. Apparently, I’ve been upgraded to the Bavga Color Experience. They’re everywhere—above me, beside me, inside my skull—cold and calculating one moment, flaring with something that might be concern the next.
I try to speak, but my tongue feels like sandpaper. My eyelids weigh seventeen pounds each. When I finally manage to crack them open, the light stabs directly into my brain.
White ceiling. Beeping machines. The antiseptic smell that screamshospitalmore effectively than any sign.
Great. Emmaleen Rourke, Hospital Edition. Yet another debt I can’t pay.
Wait. Why am I here?
I turn my head, vision swimming through a blur of color until it sharpens into... flowers. Everywhere. Not the sad grocery-store kind people buy out of obligation, but massive, sculpted arrangements that belong at a celebrity funeral.
For a second, I think I died and Giovanni sent condolence bouquets to himself. The absurdity almost makes me laugh—almost.
Then a nurse appears beside me, all penguin scrubs and weaponized cheer. “Well, good morning, sunshine,” she says,voice bright enough to qualify as a controlled substance. “About time you rejoined the land of the living. We were starting to take bets.”
I blink at her, still foggy. “Lucky winner?”
“Mr. Tall, Dark, and Don’t-Argue-With-Him.” She adjusts my IV with a wink, like we’ve been doing this for years. “Man hasn’t left your bedside in six days. Pretty sure the chair’s molded to his ass.”
The image hits somewhere between funny and terrifying. “Six days?”
She nods, unfazed. “Mmhmm. Would’ve been seven, but you finally opened your eyes this morning. Gave the poor guy a reason to shower.”
“Where did all these flowers come from? I don’t actually have this many friends.”
“Same guy, honey. They started small. He was absolutely convinced you’d recover within hours. That man’s confidence is off the charts. But... as things got worse, the arrangements got bigger. Flowers are a way for loved ones to feel… useful. In a time of helplessness.”
Helplessness. I manage a weak smile, though it hurts. When has Giovanni Bavga ever been helpless. Even as a kidnapped child, he was not helpless.
“Am I OK now?”
“Well,” she snickers, “the boss man left, so… you must be.”
She moves on, checking vitals, humming something bright and old-fashioned—like none of this is strange. But the wordsixkeeps echoing in my skull, each repetition heavier than the last.
I’ve lost a week of my life.
“He left something behind,” the nurse says, pointing to a small stainless-steel case nestled beside me. “Said it was for you. Said it was to settle his debt.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Settle his debt.
My throat tightens. There’s only one man who’d phrase it like that.
The case gleams under the fluorescent light—sleek, utilitarian, expensive. Giovanni Bavga in object form. The clasp is cold under my fingers, and for one absurd second, I think of his Lamborghini door—searching for a handle that wasn’t there, feeling stupid and fascinated all at once.
Then memory slams into me—not in pieces, but whole and merciless.
The pool house.
Being naked.
Rico’s hands in my hair.
The sculpture.