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)
Emmaleen
Twenty-one days until homelessness, nineteen demerits, and one chance at $31,750.
I am laser focused on my goal of getting the hell out of Riverview, PA—and Giovanni Bavga, mob boss, secret poet, in possession of a Lambo and the world’s most amazing green eyes—is my first-class ticket. All I have to do is everything he tells me for the next seven days.
My chains, my choice... until choosing him became the only freedom worth having.
Giovanni
Power isn’t something you take—it something given.
The demerit system was supposed to control Emmaleen Rourke but apparently, Little Miss Take didn’t get the memo. Now I'm the one losing control. Men like me don't fall first. We don't fall at all. In the circles I run in, caring about someone is the most dangerous mistake a man can make.
My game, my rules... until breaking them for her became the only win that mattered.
The Last to Fall series is an intense deep dive into the psyche of possession, obsession, and what one man will do to keep the woman he loves alive. Because some cages are chosen, and some monsters are worth the chains
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
Surrender is the purest form of power.
People imagine power as something seized—taken by force, stolen through fear, won through blood. But the truest power requires none of that. It doesn’t chase. It doesn’t beg. It doesn’t raise its voice.
Power waits. It invites. It stands perfectly still while the world rearranges itself to please it.
The weak mistake silence for mercy, composure for restraint. They never understand that patience is the sharpest blade—and that compliance offered freely cuts deeper than any command.
The offering, not the taking, is where power lives. Every bowed head, every averted gaze, is a confession of who holds dominion.
In the end, power isn’t proven in conquest, but in what is willingly given.
And the moment they offer themselves without knowing why—that’s the moment you own everything.
The theory holds.
The world has never failed to prove it.
I hand the valet my keys. His eyes widen as they should—the Aventador isn’t transportation; it’s a statement of intent. He’s maybe twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. The cheap polyester uniform doesn’t fit his shoulders.
“Keep it close,” I tell him, then go still until he meets my eyes.
It takes three seconds. He swallows hard. “Yes, sir.” He clutches the fob like it might detonate, then looks at the car like it might bite.
It should intimidate him. That’s the point.
I turn away, adjusting a cufflink, and look up at the Riverview Hotel. It stands like a mausoleum to better times—ornate molding crumbling at the edges, roofline not quite plumb, flaking paint on the balconies overlooking the river, ironwork curled like lace gone to rust. Once it hosted senators and starlets; now it clings to dignity with the stubbornness of the dying.
Preservation Society. Ironic.
The security guard at the door straightens as I approach. Badge crooked. Rental-company uniform, not hotel staff. Temporary hire. He feigns formality, but his eyes dart to the exits in case I become a problem.
The ballroom reveals itself like a map. Four exits: main entrance, service door by the stage, kitchen access to my right, and—most would miss it—a fire door disguised behind decorative paneling. Two guards posted opposite each other. No visible weapons, but a bulge under one jacket suggests otherwise. Amateur.
Champagne sweats in buckets of melting ice. Dom Pérignon 2008—decent vintage, wrong temperature. They’ve been waiting too long, trying to appear prepared. They weren’t.
The room falls quiet as I enter. Conversations die mid-sentence. Silence spreads like infection. Sixty-seven people, and not one knows what to do with their hands. The men look at their shoes. The women touch their jewelry—a universal tell for insecurity disguised as grace.
Mayor Harmon approaches, flanked by two councilmen—budget and zoning, both forgettable.
“Mr. Bavga!”
Harmon’s handshake is clammy, grip compensating with pressure. I apply twenty percent more and hold three seconds longer. His smile twitches.
“We’re so pleased you could join us tonight,” he says, voice loud for the audience. “Your family’s contributions to the restoration project have been invaluable.”
He has no idea what he’s talking about. The “project” exists only in press releases. The real investment remains invisible.
I say nothing. Silence is always the first test.
“The councilmen and I were just discussing the next phase of development,” he tries. A lie. They were discussing me. Which means they’ve already failed.
A waiter appears at precisely the right moment—young, efficient, aware of tension. He offers a single flute of champagne. Baccarat crystal. Not hotel standard. Borrowed for the event.
I take it, slip a fifty into his palm without looking down. Competence deserves recognition. I trace the rim with my thumb—a habit from childhood. I won’t drink; I never drink in public. But illusion has its uses.
He nods once and vanishes. The only person here who understands his role.