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)
"Just my private home," Lorcan says, pulling into what I can now see is an actual garage. Concrete floors polished to a mirror shine. Perfect lighting. A collection of cars that makes Giovanni's Lamborghini look like a participation trophy. "But my grown-up job is corporate security. When I rebuilt this place five years ago, I used all the tech I promote to clients."
"Corporate security." I stare at him. "You mean like… what, protecting CEOs? Installing fancy alarm systems? Teaching people not to click on phishing emails?"
"Somethin' like that."
The steel door closes behind us with another pneumatic hiss, and I realize we're now locked inside a private fortress that probably has better security than most government buildings.
Perfect. Absolutely fantastic. I've gone from one control freak's dungeon to another control freak's panic room.
Except Lorcan doesn't feel like Giovanni. Doesn't move like him. Doesn't look at me like him.
Which might be worse, actually, because at least with Giovanni I knew the rules.
Lorcan kills the engine and glances over at me. "You're thinkin' very loud right now."
"I'm thinking you have a suspicious number of expensive cars for someone whose job is 'corporate security.'" I gesture at the sleek lineup—a matte black Corvette, something small and retro that I can't identify, a white Porsche, a vintage motorcycle with the word 'Indian' across the tank, and a monster truck. "Unless 'corporate security' is code for 'I rob corporations.'"
"Family business," he says simply, popping his door open. "We're in shipping. Import-export. The security firm's a side venture—keeps things legitimate."
Import-export.
Oh, that's adorable. That's like saying the Corleones were in the "olive oil business."
I follow him out of the car, my bare feet cold against the polished concrete. The collar around my throat suddenly feels very visible, very present, a neon sign announcing Hi, I'm someone's property and I don't know whose anymore.
"What's with this thing?" I ask, pointing to the monster truck looming like a mechanical dinosaur in the corner.
The tires are practically at eye level with me.
"How did you even get it in here? Did you build it inside the warehouse?" I pace around the behemoth, tilting my head back to take in the sheer absurdity of its height. "Because I'm pretty sure that door isn't tall enough for this to fit through. Does it just... live here forever now? Like a weird automotive hostage situation?"
I'm aware I'm babbling, but exhaustion and stress have apparently turned off my filter entirely.
"Does it come with the property when you sell? 'South Boston waterfront estate, includes original brick, custom chef's kitchen, and one slightly impractical monster truck permanently entombed in the garage. What a selling point.'"
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it—high and slightly unhinged, the kind that happens when you've cried too much, and slept too little, and your brain has simply given up on processing things normally.
Lorcan is looking at me now. It's a look I recognize. It says, is she crazy-crazy? Or just crazy?
He jerks his chin toward a sleek metal door. "Come on. For someone who just slept seven hours, you look dead on your feet."
I am. I'm so tired I could sleep another ten hours in Position One if someone commanded it, which—
Stop. Stop thinking like that.
I follow him.
The door opens to a stairwell that looks like it belongs in a luxury hotel—brushed steel, recessed lighting, each step perfectly clean. No creepy basement vibes. No dungeon energy. Just… expensive minimalism.
"How many floors?" I ask, because talking keeps me from spiraling.
"Three, technically. But the ground floor's just the garage and storage. We're goin' to the second floor—main living space. Third floor's my bedroom and office."
We climb in silence, my legs protesting every step. I'm sore everywhere—not just from Jino's training or Giovanni's punishment bench, but from the whole catastrophic disaster that's been the past ten hours.
The stairwell opens into a massive loft space that makes me stop dead.
"Oh, fuck you," I breathe.
Because it's gorgeous. Vaulted ceilings with exposed beams painted matte black. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor, boats bobbing in the darkness, city lights reflecting off the water.
A fireplace you could park a car in, surrounded by stone that looks imported from some Irish castle.
Leather furniture—deep, comfortable, lived-in. Bookshelves lining an entire wall, crammed with actual books, not decorator spines. Persian rugs over polished concrete floors. Art that looks real, not mass-produced.
It's the kind of space that Architectural Digest would beg to photograph.
It's also nothing like Giovanni's mansion—no excess, no dark wood paneling, no rooms designed to intimidate. This place feels… grounded. Masculine but not aggressive. Expensive but not showy.
Livable.
"You hate it," Lorcan says, watching my face.
"I hate that I don't hate it." I drift toward the bookshelves like a magnet, scanning titles. Philosophy. Irish history. Literary fiction. Poetry—Yeats, Heaney, Kavanagh. "You actually read these?"
"Most of 'em, yeah."
I pull out a worn copy of Ulysses, pages dog-eared and annotated in the margins. Actual marginalia. Actual engagement with the text.