Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
She tries to insert rebellion into her gait—stomping when she should glide, scuffing where she should step. Small defiances that only highlight her compliance with the larger directive: she's here, moving toward my door, obeying the unspoken command to follow.
The satisfaction is cold but distinct.
I push open the heavy oak door. The foyer receives us with practiced neutrality—marble floors in a geometric pattern of black and white, walls paneled in mahogany so dark it borders on obsidian. A chandelier of crystal and wrought iron hangs from the twenty-foot ceiling, each piece catching light and fracturing it into controlled patterns across the space.
Emmaleen stops three steps in, neck craned upward, taking in the scale. She's been here before, but that visit was marred by air polluted with clouds of weed, glitter girls lounging on the couches, and Dom's 10-inch cock bulging in his underwear, and an impossible errand to fetch me a suit.
This visit is different in every way imaginable, even if she doesn't realize it yet.
Her mouth forms a silent 'oh' as her gaze traces the balustrade of the grand staircase, the oil portraits of men who built empires through blood and calculation, the antique weapons mounted with museum precision.
"Jesus," she whispers, the word escaping before she can catch it. "I'd forgotten how ostentatious this place was."
I don't correct her blasphemy. Soon, she'll have more than enough correction to satisfy me.
She wanders two steps to the right, drawn to a Venetian mirror in an ornate gold frame. Her fingers hover near its surface, not quite touching, but close enough to leave a reminder of her presence in the condensation of her breath.
I continue forward, my footsteps echoing with deliberate rhythm against marble. The main hall stretches ahead, a corridor of power designed to make visitors feel smaller with each step. The ceiling vaults higher, the portraits grow larger, the windows more austere.
Emmaleen trails behind, her attention scattered like a tourist in the Louvre, stopping to examine a silver candelabra, lingering too long at a Rembrandt sketch. Her eyes dart from artifact to artifact, unable to process the completeness of the collection, the deliberate curation of every element.
I stop at a door at the far end of the hall. Unlike the kitchen's gleaming modernity, this entrance suggests something older. Deeper. Heavy and unmarked, with iron hinges that speak to both age and purpose.
I wait, knowing she'll eventually catch up, enjoying the moment of suspended instruction.
When she finally arrives, slightly breathless and clearly overwhelmed, I allow the silence to stretch between us. One beat. Two. Three.
I clear my throat, a sound designed to cut through her distraction.
She startles, then exhales sharply through her nose. "So, okay, what now?" The question tries for impatience but lands closer to uncertainty.
I gesture toward the door, a slow, deliberate movement. My hand rests on the ornate handle, forged over a century ago. I turn it with practiced precision.
The door swings open to reveal only darkness and a stairwell descending into shadow. The air that escapes is cool, carrying hints of stone and secrets.
"Your second lesson begins now." My voice remains calm, measured, revealing nothing beyond the mechanical fact of what comes next. "Week two starts in the dark."
Confusion flickers across her face, followed by hesitation. Her eyes dart from the blackness to my face, searching for clues, for reassurance, for some hint of what waits below.
She finds none.
"After you, Miss Rourke." I extend my arm in invitation. "Your Master awaits."
2
Your Master awaits? Oh, that's just precious. The pretentious drama of it all makes me want to laugh, except there's nothing funny about being shepherded into a literal dungeon stairwell by a man who fatally shot someone in front of me two weeks ago.
I step forward, the threshold between marble opulence and stone darkness feeling symbolic in a way that's too on-the-nose for even the cheapest paperback thriller. I'm halfway through turning my head to deliver some cutting remark when the heavy door swings shut behind me with a weighted finality.
Clink. Scrape.
The key turns in the lock, each tiny mechanical movement amplified in the narrow stairwell. Giovanni isn't rushing this—no, he's making a whole production out of it, ensuring I hear every tooth of the key sliding into place. It's the audio equivalent of a villain monologue.
"Are you serious right now?" My heart rate spikes instantly, my palm slapping against the door. "Did you actually just lock me in a stairwell like some budget horror movie extra?"
No response. Of course.
I pound harder, the vibration shooting up my arm. "Giovanni!" My voice bounces off stone walls, returning to me like a mocking echo. "You utter demon-car-salesman knockoff! What is this, Kidnapping for Dummies?"
The silence on the other side feels smug. I can practically see him standing there, one eyebrow raised in that infuriating way, waiting for my panic to reach whatever threshold he's decided is appropriate for today's psychological torture session.