His voice has that CEO-meets-drill-sergeant quality that would be comical if it weren’t attached to someone who probably has people buried in concrete foundations.
“Two. Do not drink. Not a single fucking drop, do you understand me? This isn’t a joke. This is not me being alpha, or whatever. You have no idea what kind of drugs are in the drinks, but let me be very clear—therearedrugs in the drinks.”
Oh great, so it’s not just regular old crime-lord debauchery, it’s roofie-roulette. Fantastic. The evening just keeps upgrading from “terrible life choice” to “potentialLaw & Order: SVUepisode.”
“Three. Do not smoke anything.”
Wasn’t planning on it, but thanks for the reminder that I’m attending a party where inhalable felonies are on the menu alongside canapés.
“Four. If anyone touches you, do not react. Do not give them a reason to take notice of you. I will be watching, and I’ll take care of it.”
Translation: Don’t flinch when Rico’s goons grope you because Giovanni’s fragile ego requires that he be the only one defending his property. Charming. I’m basically a walking, talking territorial dispute.
He stares at me expectantly, those piercing green eyes searching mine. “Do you understand?”
I look up at him, noting the way his jaw still carries tension from our encounter. The T-shirt I’m wearing smells like him—expensive and masculine, probably with a name like “Midnight Swagger” or “Executive Dominance.”
“Yes,” I say, then because apparently my survival instinct is broken beyond repair, I add: “You’re awfully protective of someone you were trying to teach a lesson with your dick five minutes ago.”
The flash in his eyes could power a small city. For a second, I think he might drag me back to the pool house for round two of “Establishing Dominance: The Wall-Fuck Edition.”
Instead, he gives me a little push forward, his hand finding the small of my back with a pressure that’s somehow both warning and claiming. We leave the wisteria tunnel’s enchanted corridor and step into what looks like the unholy lovechild of a Diddy white party and a Scorsese film.
It’s like someone took every music video cliché, added a sprinkle of “things that would make my mother cry,” and garnished it with “people who could make me disappear without a trace.”
And here I am, in a thong, a T-shirt that barely covers my ass, no bra, and evidence of Giovanni Bavga between my thighs, walking into this den of iniquity like I belong here.
Twenty-one days until homelessness, Emmaleen. Eight demerits. Thirty-one thousand dollars.
My chains, my choice.
I repeat this like a mantra as Giovanni guides me forward, his hand burning through the thin cotton of his shirt like a branding iron.
The pool area looks like someone took the concept of “Caligula” and handed the production design to a coked-up Miami nightclub owner with something to prove. Bodies—so many naked bodies—writhe and sprawl across every available surface. The women are universally naked, their skin gleaming with oil or sweat or both, hair perfectly styled despite their complete lack of clothing. It’s like an Instagram feed come to life, minus the strategic censorship.
I’m suddenly, acutely aware that I’m the only woman here wearing anything at all. My T-shirt might as well be a Victorian ball gown compared to everyone else’s birthday suits. The men, at least some of them, have maintained the dignity of pants or shorts, though several are letting it all hang out with the casual confidence of people who’ve never worried about anything in their lives.
Water splashes from the infinity pool as two women chase each other, giggling. The sound is jarringly innocent against the backdrop of whatever the hell this is. A modern-day bacchanal with better drugs and worse intentions.
“Eyes down,” Giovanni murmurs, his fingers pressing into my hip.
Too late. I’ve already spotted him—Rico—holding court by the bar. He’s still wearing those burgundy suit pants, but his chest is bare, revealing a canvas of tattoos that spiral across his torso. Not the random scrawls of someone who collects ink on drunken weekends, but deliberate artwork telling some story I don’t want to know.
And then his eyes—dark, calculating—find mine across the crowd.
I look away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. Mistake. Looking at him feels like making eye contact with a predator that’s already decided you’re dinner.
Giovanni’s hand slides to my lower back, steering me toward a poolside cabana. It’s draped in white fabric that billows slightly in the evening breeze, creating the illusion of privacy without the substance of it. Inside, three men and two women are engaged in activities that would make a porn director blush.
Giovanni snaps his fingers. “Out.”
They look up, annoyed at the interruption, but recognition flashes across their faces when they see who’s speaking. They disentangle themselves with surprising speed, gathering discarded clothing and scurrying away like cockroaches when the light comes on.
One of the women—blonde, surgically enhanced to cartoonish proportions—gives Giovanni a lingering look as she passes. He doesn’t even acknowledge her existence.
“Sit,” Giovanni commands, lowering himself onto the plush white couch that’s just been... evacuated.
I hesitate, eyeing the upholstery with forensic suspicion.