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)
Each accusation lands like a blow. I can see it in the tightening of his shoulders, the clenching of his fists.
“That’s not the same,” he says finally.
“Isn’t it?” I challenge. “It’s all about power. Your way is just... cleaner. More sophisticated.”
Giovanni looks at me for a long moment, then stands abruptly. He walks to the window, his back to me, silhouetted against the darkness outside.
“I’m not going to kill him for you,” he says finally. “But I could make him disappear.”
The casual way he says it—like he’s offering to pick up coffee—sends a chill down my spine.
“That’s not what I want,” I say quietly.
“What do you want, then?” He turns back to face me, arms crossed over his bare chest.
What do I want? Freedom. Safety. A place to sleep that doesn’t have a three-month limit. A life where I’m not constantly looking over my shoulder.
“I want to not be afraid anymore,” I whisper, the truth slipping out before I can stop it.
Something softens in Giovanni’s expression. He gets back in bed, going silent. Silent for so long, I almost think he’s fallen asleep. So long, I’m almost asleep myself when he says, “I was kidnapped by Rico’s father when I was eight.” He’s staring up at the ceiling again. Like this is just some casual conversation one has before bed.
“They held me for ten days,” he continues. “Beat me, starved me. There was no ransom. It wasn’t that kind of kidnapping. My father was going to let them kill me rather than give them what they wanted, but one of the guys got sloppy and left his gun out. I dislocated my thumb to slip the restraints. Shot that asshole with his own gun. Ran. Police found me barefoot and disoriented in the middle of winter. The kidnapping was never reported, obviously. And after they dropped me off at home, my father beat me for making things more complicated with the LaRiccias.”
The brutality of it steals my breath. “Giovanni, I—”
“Forget it,” he interrupts, voice flat. “It’s just what I owe you for stealing your secrets.”
He turns over, showing me his back.
23
I stare into the darkness, listening to her breathing beside me. She pities me now. Poor little rich boy with his childhood trauma. The broken monster with the sad origin story.
I hate pity. It’s useless currency, worth less than the breath wasted to deliver it.
I sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Her voice is closer than I expected.
“For making you think about me.” The words taste strange. Apologies always do. “For making you a part of my story. For ruining things.”
The sheets rustle as she shifts position. “You didn’t make me think about you. You made me… see you. And I get it, we’re strangers who’ve been stuck with each other in a power play all day and so… it feels like we know each other, and we don’t. I mean, this morning I was wearing a yellow cardigan and standing outside your restaurant trying to unravel the secret of where you were. And now, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen hours later I have so many questions.”
I smile, thinking about all my careful plotting that she unraveled thread by thread.
“Did he really pre-plan a standing desk to punish me for being late? Did Giovanni Bavga handwrite those notebooks? Or did he hire a calligrapher? I drove a Lambo, got to peruse a stranger’s mansion and closet, and I played a game of Lie, Lie, Truth and still lost. Somehow.”
I can hear the smile in her voice as she catalogs our day. When I turn, I find her lying on her side, head propped up by one hand, the light from the moonlight peeking through the single open shade near the front door, making everything look and feel soft and hazy.
I’m just about to finish narrating the day by describing how it felt to be intimate with her, when she interrupts.
“Do you know this is the first day I haven’t cried in almost five years?”
I blink. Rewind. Blink again. “You cry every day?” I’m… I don’t know. Emotionally blindsided by this fact.
“Except for today.” She lets out a long breath. “Life… it’s just… it’s hard for me since my parents died.”
“Wait,” I say. Putting my fingers on her lips. “Don’t. Don’t say another fucking word. I’m not trying to shut you up or say I don’t want your story, but if this is the only day… the day you spent with me… is the only day you weren’t so sad you felt the need to cry, let it stay that way. Please.”
Her eyes are tearing up, and I’m praying, literally fucking praying in my head in a please, please, please way, that those tears do not fall.
She steals herself with a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out. “Do you know what I think when you say those words to me?”