Her breathing steadies, but her pulse remains visible at her throat. The delicate skin flutters with each heartbeat—a physical tell she can’t control, betraying her adrenaline spike despite her composed expression.
“However, if you want to end the day at zero demerits and claim your Day One reward, you’re going to need to work overtime.” I step closer, invading her space within the cedar-paneled confines of my closet. The air between us compresses, charged with tension. “A business dinner. You’ll accompany me.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. She’s calculating again, weighing variables, processing implications.
The suspicion is warranted.
This dinner isn’t business—it’s another test, another layer of control. I’ve already called ahead to reserve the private room at Vespucci’s in New Kensington, instructed the staff on their roles, selected the wine she’ll be served. I’ve choreographed every moment of the evening to observe her reactions, to push her boundaries further, to see what she’ll tolerate.
Every detail premeditated. Every possibility accounted for. Every outcome anticipated. The chessboard of our interaction has been arranged precisely to my specifications, with each of her potential moves mapped out in my mind long before she makes them.
“I can’t,” she says, gesturing at her mismatched outfit with a self-conscious sweep of her hand. “I have nothing to wear to a business dinner. This is... my best outfit.”
She looks embarrassed, her gaze dropping to the pristine cedar floor of my closet. A flush spreads across her cheeks and down her neck—not the soft pink of desire but the mottled crimson of humiliation.
And suddenly, I’m sorry she’s feeling this way. Feeling...less than. Something uncomfortable twists in my chest—an unfamiliar sensation that makes me want to reassure her.
“It’s OK...” I start to say, the words slipping out before I can contain them.
But then I stop myself abruptly, jaw tightening.
Who cares what she’s feeling?
This is a game, nothing more. Another exercise in control, in power dynamics. Her discomfort is irrelevant to the objective.
But the fact remains, itisOK. Because I’ve anticipated this objection, just like every other variable. Planned for it down to the last detail. The excuse is practical, not emotional—another data point in my assessment of her character. She’s pragmatic, not manipulative. Concerned with appearances, but not vain. Honest about her limitations.
“Follow me,” I instruct, turning toward the bedroom door.
My voice betrays nothing of the momentary lapse, returning to its usual measured cadence as I lead her from my private domain and up the narrow staircase to the fourth-floor bedroom—the former attic space that once housed Lucia before she moved to her own place downtown.
The room has been transformed over the weekend into suitable accommodations—the bed made with expensive linens, the bathroom stocked with premium toiletries. The space is impersonal but luxurious, designed to provide comfort without encouraging permanence.
The closet door stands open, revealing its contents: Garment bags. Exactly seven of them in different colors. White, black, pink, peach, gray, red, and light green.
“Put on the white outfit. Be ready by five. We can’t miss our reservation.”
She stares at the hanging bags, then at me, her expression shifting from confusion to understanding to something harder to classify. A flash of recognition that I’ve outmaneuvered her again. “You planned all this.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer. Instead, I turn to leave, pausing at the doorway. “Five o’clock. Don’t make me come find you.”
In the hallway, I allow myself a moment of anticipation. Tonight will establish the pattern for the week—dinner, drinks, and afterward, the inevitable conclusion to this elaborate game. I’ll have her in my bed by midnight. The thought sends a current of satisfaction through me that I refuse to acknowledge as desire. Tomorrow morning, I’ll have her again before work. By Wednesday, she’ll be conditioned to expect it, to want it. By Friday, she’ll be mine completely, at least for as long as I want her to be.
Just as I reach the stairs, my phone buzzes in my pocket. The notification sound is distinct—a specific tone I’ve assigned to a specific number. The vibration pattern alone tells me who it is before I even look at the screen.
Downstairs, the music abruptly cuts off. Dom and Ricky must have received the same message.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
I check the text, though I already know what it contains because this is the ‘alert number’ meant only for these three words: “Family dinner tonight.”
Not a request. A summons. Code for:We’ve got a problem. Get home now.
Dom, Ricky and I are being called back to Pittsburgh, and there’s only one reason for an emergency Monday gathering: something has gone wrong. Badly wrong. The family only convenes outside of Sunday dinners when there’s blood to be addressed. Someone has crossed a line, violated a rule, or threatened our interests. And Salvatore doesn’t call meetings unless he’s already decided on the punishment.
Dom’s voice booms from the bottom of the stairs, shattering the quiet like a sledgehammer through glass. “G! You see it?”
“Yeah, I know,” I call back, not bothering to mask the irritation coursing through my veins. My carefully constructed plans crumbling with each passing second.