I shake my head no, refusing to take the money.
Twenty-one days until homelessness. Eight demerits. One shot at $31,750.
I will never, ever tell Giovanni I live in a shelter. I’d rather die with my dignity than live with his pity.
“I’ll take my chances,” I say, my fingers fumbling on the clasp of the little white clutch purse. I pull out the two notebooks, holding them up for him. “You started this game. You made spectacular promises. I want to win the week. Thirty-one thousand dollars. That was my reward if I stuck it out.”
The cash in his hand suddenly looks insulting rather than generous. Five hundred dollars. It’s more than I would’ve earned for a day at the bakery, sure. It would cover a week at a motel, maybe two if I found someplace sketchy enough.
But it’s not life-changing money. It’s not start-over money. It’s not freedom.
Ineedlife-changing money.
“I’ll leave if you give me thirty-one grand,” I tell him, amazed at my own audacity. “Otherwise, I’m staying the week.”
The moment I see Giovanni’s face, I know I’ve overplayed my hand. His expression shifts from irritation to something darker—the way storm clouds roll in before lightning strikes.
My pulse kicks up to hummingbird speed, and I realize I’m still holding the notebooks between us like some ridiculous shield. As if paper could stop whatever’s coming.
He takes a deep breath, runs his fingers through his perfect hair, and fixes me with a glare that could freeze hell over. “You’re making a big mistake. I’m going to go on record and say that outright. You will regret this, but that’s your ‘thing’ I guess, Little Miss Take.”
The nickname stings worse now. Like he’s cataloged my entire personality as one big error in judgment.
As if reading my mind, he picks up my thoughts. “You can’t help but make them, can you? You and your words. They’re gonna get you killed one day, you know that?” His voice drops lower. “But if you want to stay, fuck it. Stay. But let me be very clear about what you’re agreeing to.”
I lower the notebooks, trying to keep my hands from visibly shaking. Thirty-one thousand dollars, I remind myself. That’s what I’m agreeing to. Survival money.
“Remember what you walked into at my house in Riverview?” Giovanni asks, stepping closer, his shadow falling over me like a physical weight, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Dom and Ricky with those naked glitter whores?”
I nod, remembering the tableau of hedonism.
“That’s nothing compared to what will happen at this party tonight.”
His eyes never leave mine as he describes what Rico’s parties entail. The words roll off his tongue with clinical precision: “Drugs passed around like party favors, women being fucked like commodities, card games where the pot includes cars, and boats, and sometimes homes. There will be weapons and men drunk enough to use them. This isn’t Dom’s ten-inch dick getting hard inside his boxers while a naked glitter girl gives him a lap dance. This is Rico LaRiccia.”
Giovanni steps even closer, his breath warm against my face.
“He is violence disguised as charm, cruelty masquerading as hospitality. The kind of man who smiles while he decides which of your fingers to break first, who laughs while watching the light fade from someone’s eyes. And you, Emmaleen, are not a guest here if you stay.”
His voice has gone completely flat.
“You’re my glitter girl for the night.”
My stomach drops through the floor.
Glitter girl. Property. Accessory. Toy.
Thirty-one thousand dollars.
One week of whatever this is. I hold his gaze, refusing to blink first.
Then, with as much conviction as I can muster, I set my jaw and nod.
“Deal.”
17