Instead, I do what I do best. What did he call it? Iwield words like weapons.
“You’re not the only one who can play detective,” I say, once again staring at the ceiling. My voice is cool despite the fire in my chest. “Let’s review our little road trip game, shall we? Two lies and a truth—except that’s not how you played it.”
Now I turn, facing him as I tick off the points on my fingers. “You shot someone when you were eight. You helped bury a body. You were kidnapped when you were eight.” I turn my head to look at him. “Funny how those bookend statements both involve you being eight years old.”
Giovanni says nothing. He doesn’t even breathe.
“See, at first I thought the kidnapping was the lie,” I continue, watching his expression carefully. “Because who kidnaps an eight-year-old and lives to tell about it when that child grows up to be you? But then I realized—you weren’t playing by the rules. You gave me twotruthsand a lie. Two truths. One lie. Only you did it all inside out. All… twisted and cloaked.”
His silence is confirmation enough.
“So I’m thinking—maybe you did bury a dog named Enzo. That part seemed genuine enough. But there were others, weren’t there?” I prop myself up on one elbow, feeling reckless and unstoppable. “And that kidnapping story—that’s the key to everything. Someone took you when you were eight, and you shot them. You shot someone when you were just a child.”
I’m walking through a minefield blindfolded, but I can’t stop.
“Someone kidnapped you and turned you into...this?—”
The shift happens so fast I barely register it. One moment I’m looking at him, the next he’s looming over me, one hand planted on either side of my head, his face inches from mine. His eyes are cold green fire, his expression pure malice.
I should be terrified. I should be scrambling away. Instead, I feel a strange calm settle over me.
“How does it feel?” I whisper, not breaking eye contact. “To have someone you barely know see your secrets?”
Giovanni’s breathing is controlled, but I can feel the tension radiating from him like heat from asphalt in August.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, each word as precise as a blade.
“Don’t I?” I challenge. “You went digging through my life without permission. You think I can’t do the same to yours? The difference is I didn’t need Google. I just needed to listen.”
“You think you’re so clever,” he says, voice dangerously soft. “You think you’ve figured me out based on a car game.”
“No,” I reply. “I think I’ve barely scratched the surface. But I hit something real, didn’t I? That’s why you’re hovering over me like I’m a threat instead of a homeless girl in thrift-store clothes.”
Surprise flickers across his face. Then sadness. “You’re homeless…”
I don’t give him anything. Instead, I press harder. “What happened to you when you were eight? Who took you? And what did they do that was so terrible you had to shoot them to get away?”
His expression darkens further. “You don’t want to know.”
“Actually, I do,” I say. “That’s the difference between us. You went looking for my secrets to control me. I’m trying to understand you.”
He laughs, a short, bitter sound. “Understanding me won’t help you, Miss Rourke.”
“Maybe not,” I concede. “But it might help me figure out why you’re so obsessed with power. Why you need to control everything and everyone around you. Why you created an entire system just to make me feel like I’m constantly on the verge of failure.”
His eyes narrow. “You think this is therapy?”
“No,” I say. “I think this iswar. Everything in life is war and I’m tired of being the only one who bleeds.”
For a long moment, we just stare at each other, breathing the same air, locked in some unspoken battle of wills. I should be afraid—this man is dangerous in ways I can’t even fully comprehend—but all I feel is a strange, reckless courage.
“You’re playing with fire,” he finally says.
“So are you,” I counter. “The difference is, I’ve already been burned before. I know what it feels like. You’ve cocooned yourself inside a bubble of control and power. I’m expecting to lose. You take winning for granted.”
Something shifts in his expression—not softening, exactly, but changing. Like he’s seeing me differently.
“Who hurt you?” he asks quietly.