Blood.
Giovanni’s eyes after he pulled the trigger.
The monitor starts beeping faster, and the nurse murmurs something about taking it easy, but I barely hear her. I’m back in time, replaying every second of the single day I worked for a mob boss.
The set up. The contract. The desk. The shoes, the Lambo, the closets, the drive, the game, my poem, the threat, the new deal, the wall-fucking, the sex party, the blatant display of exhibitionism, his poem, our first fight.
Then our first real conversation.
The lifting of burdens we didn’t even know were weighing us down. I took some of his, he took some of mine…
I sigh.
Romantic, it is not.
And yet…
I flip the lid open, and my breath catches.
Cash. Stacks of it. Crisp, banded hundreds that look suspiciously like exactly $31,750. The promised reward for a week without demerits.
Except I didn’t make it through the week without demerits.
I lift the cash, and there they are—both notebooks. Sitting side by side like twin judges: one for my sins, one for my salvation.
I pick up the demerit book first. The leather is soft, worn smooth along the edges. The spine has a faint bend, like it’s been opened and reopened a hundred times. The corners are no longer sharp, instead, rounded from use.
The crimson leather bookmark divides the middle. I flip to it and pause.
Words. His words. Everywhere.
The page is full—dense with black ink, packed edge to edge as if he couldn’t bear to stop. The margins are gone, consumed by notes that climb right to the edge, each line pressed against the next. Tiny ink blots mark the pauses—moments where he must have stopped to think, to breathe, to try again.
What is going on here? This page is chaos unleashed. It makes no sense. Not in the context of Giovanni Bavga.
I flip to the first page. It looks completely different. Structured, orderly, neat. His handwriting, a testament to years of elite prep-school expectation. Each entry is numbered. Boxed. Ruled off with straight, deliberate lines.
Demerit: Blood pressure dropped to 82/45 at 3:17 a.m.
Explanation: This is unacceptable. I did not give you permission to die, Miss Rourke.
Demerit: Erratic brain waves during hour seven.
Explanation: Your thoughts should be more orderly. This is simply sloppy.
I snort, which makes my head throb. Even unconscious, I can’t meet his standards.
Demerit: Required second blood transfusion.
Explanation: Wasteful. One should have been sufficient.
Demerit: Developed fever of 102.3.
Explanation: Drama queen.
Demerit: Left pupil unresponsive to light.
Explanation: Insubordination.