Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Jino moves.
I didn't hear him approach, but suddenly his hand is there, palm open, silently demanding the phone. His eyes lock onto mine—steady, clinical, completely devoid of the fury that was eating him alive two hours ago.
I hand him the phone without a word.
"Lorcan," Jino says, his voice dropping into that calm, detached register he uses when he's explaining submission protocols. "It's Jino. I need you to tell me exactly what's happening with Emmaleen right now. Don't summarize. Don't interpret. Just describe what you're seeing."
I can't hear Lorcan's response, but I watch Jino's face as he listens. His expression doesn't change—still that same clinical assessment, like he's cataloging symptoms for a diagnosis.
"How long has she been in that state?" Jino asks.
Pause.
"And before that? When you first restrained her?"
Another pause. Longer this time.
Jino's jaw tightens fractionally—the only sign he's processing something he doesn't like. "Did you touch her sexually? At any point?"
I stop breathing.
"No," Jino says after a moment, responding to whatever Lorcan answered. "That's actually good. That's—listen to me, Lorcan. What you're seeing right now is power-exchange withdrawal. It's a documented psychological phenomenon that occurs when a heavily conditioned submissive is removed from their dominant without proper transitional support."
He's talking to Lorcan, but he's looking at me.
Making me watch what I did to her.
What I did to all of them.
"Emmaleen has been in an intensive training environment for weeks," Jino continues, his tone never wavering from that steady, professorial cadence. "Her nervous system adapted to a very specific feedback loop—commands, compliance, consequences, rewards. Her brain chemistry literally restructured around those patterns. Dopamine, oxytocin, endorphins—all of it tied to Giovanni's presence and the rituals we established. When you removed her from that environment, you didn't just take her away from Giovanni. You severed her from her entire regulatory system."
Lorcan must ask something, because Jino's expression shifts slightly.
"She'll attach to any authority figure who demonstrates dominance," Jino explains. "It's not a conscious choice—it's just neurological survival. Her brain is desperately searching for someone to restore the structure it was trained to depend on. And because her conditioning is sexual in nature, her body will respond sexually to anyone who triggers those cues. Commands. Physical control. Restraints. Anything that mimics what we taught her to associate with safety and release."
My stomach turns.
"Right now she's likely cycling between panic and desperate submission," Jino continues. "Begging for her 'King' or her 'Master' because those are the frameworks her brain can access. She might be nonverbal or stuck in mantras. Her arousal responses are probably involuntary and distressing to her. She can't regulate her own emotions anymore without external structure, so she'll spiral deeper until someone provides it—or until her system crashes completely."
I can hear Lorcan saying something, his accent thick even through the phone's tinny speaker.
"Well…" Jino looks at me. "That's up to Giovanni."
"What?" I ask. "What's up to me?"
"Do you want him to release her? Or let her keep spiraling."
I actually snort. "Do I want him to release her? Are you fucking mad?"
Jino flips into dominant mode, speaking to me like I'm a child. "She's nine hours away, Giovanni. Even if it was safe to go to Boston and get her, it's nine fucking hours away. She needs relief."
Lorcan says something in response.
Jino nods. "The LaRiccia's are on to us. He's right, you need to take care of that."
"Take care of that how?" I snap. "Are you telling me I need to roll into fucking New York and take out the LaRiccia Crime Family?" I slap my own head. "Why didn't I think of that?"
"No," Jino says, his voice flat and clinical, like he's explaining a simple equation. "You need to make a call. Lorcan has figured out what happened—"
His hand shoots up before I can react, palm out, forestalling the explosion building in my chest. "No, Emmaleen didn't tell him. She refused to tell him. But there's a scar, Giovanni. And…" He blows out a breath. "His point is this—he'll help you kill DeepFake Rico."
The laugh that bursts out of me is short, sharp, and utterly humorless. It echoes off the empty walls of the living room, bouncing back at me like mockery.
"And then," Jino continues, ignoring my reaction entirely, his tone shifting into something softer, more persuasive, "we'll all be free of them. All of us. No more LaRiccia shadow hanging over your head. No more Rico. No more suspicions. Luca will have his answers and Emmaleen will be safe."
I stop pacing. My shoes scrape against the floor as I pivot on my heel, mind racing through implications, possibilities, traps.
Jino crosses the space between us and extends his hand, the phone resting in his open palm like an offering. Like a weapon. I stare at it for a moment—at the glowing screen, at the call timer ticking upward—before I snatch it from him.