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)
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
I move closer to her on the bed. Fighting the urge to pull her close. “I think you do like me. I think it terrifies you.”
“You think very highly of yourself.”
“I think you wouldn’t have fucked me if you didn’t like something about me.”
Her eyes narrow. “Sex isn’t always about liking someone.”
“No,” I agree. “Sometimes it’s about power. Sometimes it’s about money. Sometimes it’s about fear. Sometimes it’s just about loneliness. Which was it for you?”
She purses her lips as she stares into my eyes and once again, I’m transfixed by the pale desert I find in hers. “Maybe it was all of the above.”
“Or maybe you just like me despite yourself.”
“And what if I do?” Her voice is quiet but steady. “What difference would it make?”
“It would make me want to be someone you could like without reservation. It would make me want to remove these reservations from your thoughts. It would make me want to fix this… whatever this is.”
The words hang between us. I hadn’t planned to say them. I hadn’t even known I was thinking them until they escaped.
She studies my face, looking for the lie, the angle, the manipulation. I keep my expression neutral, giving her nothing to find.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” she says finally.
“Why not?”
“Because you are who you are, Giovanni. And I am who I am.”
“And who exactly are you, Emmaleen Rourke?”
She smiles, but it’s weary. “I’m the girl who’s trying to survive the next six days without hating myself when it’s over.”
“Are you looking forward to it being over?”
“I’m looking forward to the money.”
“You’re saying this to hurt me.”
“No,” she says quickly. “I’m saying this so I don’t get hurt.”
And then she turns her back to me, officially putting an end to her first day working for Giovanni Bavga, crime boss, control freak, and architect of a game she never wanted to play, but feels compelled to win, nonetheless.
I turn over as well so that we’re sleeping back-to-back. It’s the end of my day one too.
Day one of… what, though? I’m not sure.
I just know that nothing will ever be the same again.
24
I wake up alone in Giovanni Bavga’s bed.
For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The sheets are too soft, the mattress too firm, the room too quiet. Then yesterday’s highlight reel starts playing in my head: the demerit notebooks, the red stilettos, the Lamborghini, the mansion, the party, the sex.
Oh god, the sex.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to process how I went from unemployed bakery assistant to sleeping with a mob boss in less than twenty-four hours. My life has become a Lifetime docudrama with an NC-17 rating.
The shower’s running in the bathroom. Giovanni must be in there, washing away whatever happened between us last night. I wish I could do the same, but some stains don’t come out no matter how hard you scrub.
How did we get from “You’re eight minutes late, you’re fired” to “Do you like me?” in the span of a single day? The bookends of my first day working for Giovanni Bavga are so wildly incongruous that I’m getting whiplash just thinking about it.
I remember his face when he asked that question. The vulnerability beneath the steel. The way he looked almost... hopeful? But that can’t be right. Men like Giovanni don’t hope; they take.
The shower shuts off. I quickly close my eyes, pretending to be asleep. I’m not ready to face him yet, not ready to acknowledge that I might actually like the man who’s trying to control every aspect of my existence.
I hear the bathroom door open, footsteps padding across the floor, drawers sliding open and closed. I crack one eye open just enough to see Giovanni, towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets still clinging to his shoulders as he pulls clothes from a dresser in the closet.
I snap my eye shut when he turns, holding my breath until I hear him go back into the bathroom. When he emerges again, he’s fully dressed in another immaculate suit.
“I know you’re awake,” he says.
Busted. “Your powers of observation are truly remarkable.”
He doesn’t respond to my sarcasm, just walks across the room and opens a set of French doors I hadn’t noticed before. Sunlight floods the space, along with the scent of flowers.
“There’s a patio,” I say unnecessarily, sitting up and pulling the sheet around me. Even from across the room, I can see it’s a postcard-perfect slice of curated nature. A low hedge bursting with white flowers forms a natural fence around the perimeter. The blooms are so densely packed they look like someone spilled whipped cream along the edges of the stone flooring. Probably some rare botanical specimen that only grows in the tears of virgins during a blue moon.
In the center sits a small wrought iron table for two, its surface gleaming in the morning light like it’s never experienced the indignity of bird droppings or pollen. Two matching chairs with plush cushions wait expectantly, as though Giovanni regularly hosts breakfast parties for the criminally elegant.