She knows that I know exactly where she’s going. But she sets her jaw and stares up at me, silent, with that same infuriating defiance.
“Oh, no,” I say, letting my gaze burn into hers. “You don’t get to clean up like some dainty lady, Emmaleen. You’re dirty now. Get used to it. You wanted to be my arm candy at Rico’s party? This is what that means. You wear what I tell you to wear. Yousmell like what I tell you to smell like. And right now, you smell like I just fucked you against the door.”
I push her again. She stumbles slightly but catches herself. I see calculations running behind those green eyes—the money, the humiliation, the danger of Rico. She’s playing every angle.
“You think this is a game you can win,” I continue, circling her like a shark. “You think you’ve got leverage now because we fucked. Because I lost control for five minutes.”
I stop directly in front of her, close enough that I can see her pupils dilate.
“Let me be clear. You don’t have leverage. You have six demerits and a one-week contract that I can terminate at any time. What you just witnessed? That was a momentary lapse in judgment. It won’t happen again.”
The lie tastes acidic on my tongue.
We both know it will happen again.
The question is when, and who will be in control when it does.
“Welcome to the fucking party, Little Miss Take.” My voice drops to a dangerous register. “If you think I’ll just hand you thirty-one thousand dollars because you’re clever and cute, you’ve grossly underestimated my gameplay. Let’s go.”
18
There’s only one rule in my life now: don’t flinch. Not when you’re sticky with someone else’s power and about to walk into a party full of wolves.
Giovanni takes my hand as we exit the pool house, his grip possessive rather than affectionate. His fingers are warm and steady, while mine probably feel like I’m conducting electricity. Which, honestly, I might be. My body is still humming from what just happened—still processing the way he lifted me against that door like I weighed nothing, the way his mouth claimed mine, the way I responded like my body had been waiting for him specifically.
God, what is wrong with me? Stockholm syndrome doesn’t usually kick in this fast, does it?
But it wasn’t just the physical part that’s left me reeling. It was that moment—that single, disorienting moment—when he pushed my hair back from my face. His fingers against my cheek, so gentle it felt like a hallucination in the middle of all that aggression. That tenderness was more devastating than anything else he did to me.
Even when he got rougher, grabbing my hips hard enough to leave marks, I didn’t want him to stop. I’ve never felt anything like it—like being consumed and seen at the same time. Likebeing the only thing that matters in someone’s universe for five minutes.
And now we’re heading to a party where I’m supposed to be his property. Great. From metaphorical objectification to literal objectification. At least I’m getting the full misogyny experience package.
But I know what I said to him was true. Giovanni Bavga isn’t going to let anyone touch me. Even if he’s furious with me, even if he regrets what just happened between us—the man I just witnessed losing control doesn’t share. He’s not wired that way. His possessiveness radiates from him like heat.
We step into what can only be described as a botanical cathedral. A tunnel of wisteria arches over us, purple-blue blooms hanging in cascades that transform the evening light into something otherworldly. The fragrance is intoxicating—sweet but not cloying, like expensive perfume that knows exactly when to stop. The pathway beneath our feet crunches softly, and subtle lighting along the edges makes the whole thing glow like something from a fairy tale.
It’s ridiculously, offensively beautiful—the kind of place designed for lovers’ whispered promises and stolen kisses. Not for a mob boss and his reluctant, post-coital assistant with six demerits.
The romantic setting makes what just happened between us feel even more surreal. Like we’re actors who wandered onto the wrong set. This should be a scene from a romance novel, not whatever horror-thriller-dark-comedy hybrid I’m currently starring in.
Giovanni stops abruptly, his hand tightening around mine. “It’s like he brought the entire city of New York with him,” he mutters, jaw clenching. “What a dick. I can’t believe my father agreed to this.”
I follow his gaze beyond the wisteria tunnel to where the party spills across the property. There must be at least a hundred people swarming around an Olympic-sized pool, steam floating up off the surface like a mist, glowing an unnatural blue in the gathering twilight.
The contrast between the wisteria’s delicate beauty and the debauchery ahead is jarring, like walking from a cathedral straight into a nightclub.
Or, more accurately, from a romance novel into a crime thriller where I’m definitely not the protagonist—just the disposable girl who doesn’t make it past chapter three.
The scent of wisteria is making me dizzy, or maybe it’s the whiplash from going from homeless-shelter resident to mob-boss plaything in under twenty-four hours. The flowers hang like purple chandeliers above us, impossibly lush and dripping with sweetness that feels almost narcotic. Nature’s very own designer drug.
Giovanni’s fingers tighten around mine as he leans in, his breath warm against my ear. The closeness makes my skin prickle with sense memory. Door. Hands. Teeth. Focus, Emmaleen.
“Here are the rules. Are you listening?”
I look up at him—at those impossibly beautiful green eyes of his—and nod. Why does darkness have to be so beautiful?
“One. Do not leave my sight unless I order you to.”