I turn to find Emmaleen hovering tentatively in the doorway of the attic bedroom, one hand gripping the frame like it’s the only thing keeping her upright in a world gone sideways. Those green eyes of hers—sharp, observant—are cataloging every twitch flickering across my face. Nothing escapes her notice. It’s what makes her both fascinating and dangerous.
Regret washes through me, hot and unfamiliar, settling in my gut like lead. It’s only 1:15. I had the whole goddamn afternoon mapped out with military precision. Plans layered upon plans, each moment orchestrated to build toward the inevitable conclusion—her underneath me tonight, finally surrendering that stubborn will of hers.
And now it’s ruined. Completely fucking derailed.
Maybe the whole week is shot to hell, depending on what clusterfuck awaits at the Bavga estate. If Angelo’s stepped in shit again with his impulsive decisions, or if one of Marco’s loose-cannon associates has crossed a line they shouldn’t have, we could be looking at days of damage control. Territorial disputes don’t magically resolve themselves over cappuccinos and handshakes. They require blood, sweat, and the occasional broken bone.
“What?” she asks, and there’s something in her voice—a quiet perceptiveness—that snaps me back to the present moment. I must be slipping. My face must be betraying too much. Fuck.
I feel like some inexperienced college boy, sweaty-palmed and uncertain, debating whether to chance it and shove my hands up my date’s shirt or play Mr. Nice Guy for another excruciating hour. So amateur. Undisciplined. Pathetic.
I blow out a breath, recalibrating my approach, rebuilding the walls. “Plans have changed.”
Her eyebrows draw together, creating a small furrow between them that I find myself wanting to smooth away. “What does that mean?”
What it means is that I’m being summoned like a fucking trained dog, just like always. What it means is that I’ve spent nine grueling months building something substantial here in Riverview, and now I have to drop everything because Salvatore snapped his arthritic fingers. The prodigal son, forever at the patriarch’s beck and call.
“I have to go back to Pittsburgh. Family business.” I watch her face carefully as the implications sink in, her expression shifting from confusion to something closer to disappointment. Interesting. “Unfortunately, this doesn’t cancel your demerits.”
This wasn’t how I wanted to have the demerit notebook conversation. I had that planned too—after dinner, over dessert, when her defenses were lowered by good food and better wine. Now that’s ruined. But it’s the only card I’ve got to play at the moment, and I need to maintain control of this rapidly derailing situation.
“You did well with the driving,” I tell her, noting how her shoulders relax slightly at the praise, like a flower turning toward sunlight. “But you took the shoes off in the hallway.” I point down to her feet—still bare, the blood-red Louboutins dangling from her fingers like forgotten trophies. “So... that’s ten more demerits.”
Her face tightens, that stubborn defiance I’ve come to expect flashing in her eyes. “Ten? For shoes?”
“You started with ten, earned five rewards, then got ten more. That’s an ending total of fifteen.” I fold my arms across my chest, stance widening slightly. “They’re cumulative. You would’ve started tomorrow with fifteen, if that was your final total after the day was over. And something tells me you’re anoverachiever when it comes to mistakes, Miss Take. It’s a big hole you’ve dug. And it’s only day one.”
“Would’ve?” she repeats, focusing on the exact word I intended her to catch. Smart girl. Always listening for the trap.
“I’ll probably be gone for at least tomorrow. So... no way to earn it back.” I shrug, feigning indifference while watching her reaction with laser focus. “Maybe, if I’m still in need of an assistant, you could come back in a few weeks, and we could try again.”
The effect is immediate and visceral. Her face drains of color as though someone’s pulled a plug. All those money dreams—the $31,750 potential earnings she’d so carefully calculated when she read the notebook—evaporating before her eyes like morning dew under a merciless sun. She actually goes pale, her constellation of freckles standing out in stark relief against her alabaster skin.
“Unless,” I say, pausing deliberately, savoring the moment of suspended animation, “you come with me.”
She blinks, confusion momentarily overriding her panic. “To Pittsburgh?”
“You are my assistant. If this wasn’t your introduction week, you’d go everywhere with me.”
This is a blatant lie. I’ve never taken a random girl to any business meetings, let alone home to the family compound. But the game is good. The strategy is working. The week was meticulously planned, and I’m not ready to abort just because Salvatore can’t handle his shit for seven fucking days without dragging me back into the fold.
And anyway, if she comes with me, she’ll never win. Not with my family around. The Bavga family is big, and loud, and overwhelming—a hurricane of personalities not suited for young ladies who shop at quaint farmer’s markets and sew ‘Save the Bee’s’ patches on their tote bags.
“I need an answer now,” I say, checking my watch with deliberate precision. “We leave in thirty minutes.”
She hesitates—but only for a heartbeat—then nods with that quiet resolve that keeps drawing me in against my better judgment. “I’ll go.”
Of course she will. She’s desperate, and I’ve made damn sure she knows it. The hook is set, and now I’m reeling her in, one calculated tug at a time.
“Make yourself presentable,” I tell her, my voice dropping to that commanding register that brooks no argument. “Change into the white outfit in the garment bag and meet me downstairs in twenty minutes.”
13
Twenty minutes. Twenty whole minutes to transform from Cinderella-pre-makeover to Cinderella-post-makeover, minus the helpful singing mice and plus a sociopathic mob boss waiting downstairs.
Totally doable. Absolutely fine. Not a problem at all.
I stare at the bathroom that’s bigger than my entire corner of the women’s shelter. The shower alone could house a family of four. There’s a rainfall showerhead, body jets, and—is that a steam function? I’m standing in front of the bathroom equivalent of a Tesla while I’ve been bathing in the shelter’s 1992 Honda Civic with three missing hubcaps.