I laugh, the sound sharp and brittle. “Oh no. You don’t get to flip this around. We’re talking about your trauma, not mine.”
“My trauma,” he repeats, as if testing the phrase.
“Yes. The thing that made you into whateverthisis.” I gesture vaguely between us. “The reason you need demerit notebooks and punishment systems and all these elaborate games. The reason you treat women like accessories and men like pawns.”
His jaw tightens again. “These are all guesses.”
“Not wild ones. I recognize the pattern. I’ve seen it before. Just not quite at your... scale of operation.”
Giovanni shifts slightly, still hovering over me but no longer looking quite so murderous. “Again, you’re comparing me to someone.”
I don’t answer, but something in my expression must give me away.
“The missing year,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “The deactivated social media. The way you looked at Rico. The way you continued to look at Rico, even after he left. Someone did this to you.”
Now it’s my turn to feel exposed, raw. “We’renottalking about me.”
“Aren’t we?” His eyes search mine. “You recognized my game because you’ve played it before. With someone else. Someone who hurt you badly enough that you disappeared for a year.”
I swallow hard. “Stop.”
“You didn’t just erase your Instagram; you erased your life. You ran. That’s why you’re homeless. You ran from someone and it’s not over yet, is it? He’s still looking for you.”
I want to cry, but Iwill not. At least, not while he’s watching. “What are you gonna do now, Giovanni?” My voice is low, and soft, and trembling. “Kill him for me? To prove that you care?” He reaches for me, but I flinch and move away. “Don’t.”
The single syllable hangs between us like a loaded gun. His hand freezes mid-air, then slowly retracts.
“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he says, voice carefully neutral.
“Weren’t you? Isn’t that what men like you do? Hurt people to prove points?”
Giovanni lowers himself back down onto his back, creating space between us. His face is unreadable now, that perfect mask sliding back into place.
“You think I’m like him.” Not a question.
I laugh, a huff of incredulity. “I think you’reworse.”
He doesn’t respond to that, just watches me with those unsettling green eyes.
“At least he was honest about what he wanted,” I continue, unable to stop the words now that they’ve started. “He never pretended to be anything other than what he was.”
“And what was he?” Giovanni asks, voice dangerously soft.
I meet his gaze directly. “A monster who thought he owned me.”
The silence stretches between us, taut as piano wire.
“The difference,” I finally say, “is that he didn’t have the resources you do. He couldn’t background check me with a snap of his fingers. He couldn’t buy my compliance with thirty-one thousand dollars. He had to use... other methods.”
Giovanni’s jaw tightens. “Did he hit you?”
The question is so direct it knocks the air from my lungs. I look away, focusing on the pattern of the duvet cover. One thousand thread count, probably. The kind of luxury that exists in a different universe from the women’s shelter.
“Emmaleen.” His voice is gentler now.
“What do you care?” I snap at him before he can ask again. “You’re not so different. You’ve got your notebooks and your demerits and your punishments. You’ve got your rules and your tests and your mind games. It’s all about control.”
“I would never?—”