I laugh. “I never said that.”
“No.” He smiles back. Almost chuckles. “That was me.”
“But don’t forget my analysis of why men who drive luxury cars are compensating for existential inadequacy,” I add, because apparently embarrassment makes me double down on being insufferable.
“I’m not existentially inadequate,” he says with such flat confidence that I almost believe him. “And I don’t drive this car to impress anyone.”
“Then why drive it?”
“Because I can.”
And there it is—the reminder that I’m sitting next to a man who does whatever he wants simply because nothing and no one can stop him. It’s simultaneously terrifying and... something else I refuse to name.
He smoothly changes lanes, then resumes our game like we didn’t just have whatever weird moment that was.
“I’ve had to bury a body before.”
“What?” I practically choke this word out, my heart skipping several beats as my mind races through horrifying possibilities.
He laughs for real—a rich, genuine sound that catches me off guard—and I find myself relishing it despite my alarm. Holy shit. Even his laugh is sexy, all deep and resonant, like expensive whiskey poured over ice. “The game, Emmaleen. We’re playing, right? Lie, Lie, Truth.”
I can’t tell if that question is rhetorical, literal, or figurative. My brain still feels stuck on the casual mention of body burial. “Um... yeah. We’re playing,” I manage, trying to recalibrate my thoughts from panic to playfulness.
“Well, let’s play.” His voice has that velvet-wrapped-steel quality that makes something flutter low in my stomach. “I once...” he pauses for dramatic effect, “single-handedly negotiated a multi-million-dollar deal in under a minute.”
These words easily conjure up a scene in my over-active imagination: Giovanni in a dimly lit room, surrounded by nervous men in expensive suits, his presence alone commanding the space as he casually names a figure that makes everyone else in the room sweat.
“I made a fortune as a professional poker player before taking over my family’s business,” he continues smoothly, his fingers tapping once against the steering wheel—a gesture so subtle I almost miss it.
Hmm. I don’t know. My brain immediately starts analyzing his delivery. The first statement came out too easily, like breathing. The second had a slight pause before “single-handedly,” as if he was deciding whether to exaggerate. The third had a rehearsed quality to it.
But there’s a problem. All three statements sound equally plausible for a man like Giovanni Bavga. Burying bodies? Obviously. Business deals? That’s literally his job. Poker? With that face carved from marble, showing about as much emotion as a statue of a tax accountant? He’d clean up.
My Spidey sense is failing me. Or maybe it’s just distracted by the way his profile cuts against the afternoon sun, all sharp edges and perfect symmetry, like some Renaissance sculptor got commissioned to create “Devastating Man in Expensive Suit.”
Focus, Emmaleen. This is a game of strategy, not a hot-guy Pinterest board.
I analyze the statements again. The body-burying one feels too on the nose for a mob boss to admit. The poker one seems like a convenient origin story. But the business deal...
“The second one is definitely a lie,” I decide. “Nobody single-handedly negotiates anything. There are always lawyers, assistants, someone taking notes or getting coffee.”
His eyebrow lifts slightly. “You’re assuming I play by normal business rules.”
“No, I’m assuming you’re smart enough to know that ‘single-handedly’ is never actually true. Even Batman has Alfred.”
Giovanni’s mouth twitches. “Interesting analysis. Wrong, but interesting.”
“Which part? I don’t have access to your sentence diagram.”
“What?” He actually laughs again, the sound deep and unexpected, like thunder on a clear day.
I’m so screwed. Because if he does it again, I might have to start liking him. And liking Giovanni Bavga feels like a particularly dangerous cliff to stand on. “Your grammar,” I clarify, trying to ignore how the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly when he’s amused. “Wrong, but interesting. Was the statement true? Or was my guess wrong?”
He doesn’t answer me—not that question. His gaze slides over my face, assessing something I can’t identify. Instead. he says, “The poker statement is also a lie. I’m terrible at poker. My tells are too obvious.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. The man who could stare down a hungry tiger without blinking has tells? “You?Tells? You have the emotional range of a concrete block. I’ve seen mannequins with more expressive faces.”
“Precisely.” One corner of his mouth lifts in what might almost be a smile. “I’m too controlled. Real poker players know that perfect control is itself a tell. Too much stillness becomes suspicious.”