Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
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.”
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—there are drugs 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 “potential Law & Order: SVU episode.”
“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.