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)
But I can read the shape of the words.
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
Please don't be afraid.
Maybe an hour later, the back stairwell groans.
Footsteps—heavy, deliberate—ascending from the dungeon below.
I straighten in the control chair, forcing my mind into stillness. Knuckles still raw from our earlier fight. The split in my lip throbs, a reminder of how that confrontation ended—bloody and unresolved.
I should stand. Should meet him at the door. Should demand an accounting for what I just witnessed—the violation of every protocol, the weaponization of aftercare, the confession to an unconscious girl who couldn't consent to hearing his trauma.
Should. Should. Should.
But I don't move.
The door opens. Giovanni enters, and the air shifts—charged, electric, wrong.
His eyes are too bright. Pupils dilated despite the dim lighting. Energy radiates off him in waves, manic and uncontained. He's shirtless, dried blood—Emmaleen's? His own?—smeared across his ribs.
"Jino." My name comes out breathless. Excited. "You should have seen her."
I remain still. Watching. Cataloging.
"The way she took it. Every strike. Counted them perfectly—no hesitation, no begging." He paces, three steps left, pivot, three steps right. Caged animal energy. "She never once used her safe word. Not once. She's ready for more. She wants more."
The fuck? "Giovanni—"
"No, listen." He cuts me off, hands moving now, gesturing wildly. "I know what you're thinking. That I went too hard, too fast. But you didn't see her face. The way she looked at me after. Trust. Pure fucking trust. She enjoyed it, Jino. The pain, the submission, all of it."
Enjoyed it.
The words land like a sickness.
She cried. She trembled. Not because her muscles were being put through paces to make them strong, but because she has been conditioned to accept violence as inevitable. To equate pain with love.
That's not enjoyment. That's survival.
But Giovanni sees what he needs to see. Interprets her compliance as consent, her endurance as eagerness.
"Tomorrow morning," he continues, still pacing. "Don't go slow with her. She can handle more than you think. Give her positions that challenge. Make her hold them longer. Push her limits."
I find my voice. "The contract specifies gradual escalation—"
"Fuck the contract." He waves a hand dismissively. "I cleared all her demerits. Fresh slate. But I want her to earn at least a dozen by tomorrow night. Can you do that?"
Can I.
As if this is a request, not a command.
As if I have any power here to refuse.
"I'll give her suggestions," Giovanni says. His smile is sharp, edged with something I can't name. "For her punishments. She'll choose again, but I'll guide the selection. Make sure she picks implements that—"
"That's a violation." The words escape before I can stop them.
Giovanni stops pacing. Turns. "What?"
"Suggesting punishments. Influencing her choices." I keep my voice level, clinical. "It undermines the agency that makes this consensual. She needs to select freely, without coercion."
For a moment—just one—something flickers in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Shame.
Then it's gone.
"She'll still choose," he says, his voice quieter now. "I'm just... helping her understand her options."
Another violation. Another manipulation dressed as guidance.
I don't respond. What's the point? Giovanni will do what Giovanni does. He's the one with power here—the mansion, the money, the name that carries weight in this town and beyond.
I'm just the cousin. The contractor. The one who trains other men's property.
Giovanni runs a hand through his hair. The manic energy is fading now, draining out of him like water from a cracked vessel. Exhaustion takes its place—deep, bone-weary, the kind that comes from prolonged adrenaline crashes.
"I'm going to sleep." His voice has gone flat. Empty. "For a while."
He turns toward the door. No goodbye, no acknowledgment of the conversation we just had, no recognition that anything about tonight was wrong.
Just footsteps. The door opening. Closing.
Gone.
I sit in the silence he leaves behind.
The monitors glow—Emmaleen still curled up on the vinyl bed, unconscious or asleep, I can't tell which. The dungeon empty, except for scattered implements, abandoned restraints, evidence of what happened.
My watch reads 12:17 a.m.
Which means her day officially belongs to me now.
Giovanni's house. Giovanni's town. Giovanni's woman—that's how he sees it. How he'll always see it. The Bavga name carries weight that the Moretti name never will. We're related, yes, but I'm not one of them. Not really.
We run the Three Rivers docks. It's not nothing, but it's not Bavga.
The Bavgas were born into power. We had to build ours from scratch, and it only extends as far as the contracts I sign.
But Emmaleen's mornings are mine. That's been decided. Written in blood.
And right now, she needs someone who remembers what this lifestyle is supposed to be. Not a weapon. Not a vessel for unprocessed trauma. Not a mirror for self-hatred.
A dance between control and surrender that requires trust, communication, boundaries.
All the things Giovanni just shattered.
I stand. My body protests—bruised ribs, split knuckles, the ache in my jaw where Giovanni's fist connected. But I move anyway, exiting the control room, descending the narrow stairwell back into the dungeon.