Chapter 14 Emmaleen
My mother was a poet.
Five words. Five impossible words that don’t compute with the man sitting next to me, all hard angles and calculated power moves. I blink at him, trying to process this information like it’s a corrupted file my brain can’t quite open.
Giovanni Bavga—crime lord, punishment enthusiast, designer suit aficionado—had a mother who wrote poetry? What, did she compose sonnets about breaking kneecaps? Villanelles about protection rackets?
His jaw tightens, and I realize I’ve been staring at him like he just announced he’s secretly a unicorn. The silence stretches between us, getting thinner and more uncomfortable by the second.
This is the problem with poems. They’re emotional crowbars, prying open doors that should stay locked.
I didn’t want to recite that stupid scholarship piece.
It’s too raw, too much like handing someone your diary and a magnifying glass.
But seven demerits was too good to pass up, and now here we are, having an accidental moment of genuine human connection.
Gross.
“Your mother was a poet,” I repeat, like I’m testing the sentence for structural integrity. “As in, published? Or more of a ‘writes in journals that no one is allowed to read’ kind of poet?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His hands flex on the steering wheel, and I catch myself staring at his fingers—long, precise, probably equally adept at signing business deals or, I don’t know, garroting people.
“Published,” he finally says, the word clipped as if he’s already regretting this whole conversation. “She taught literature at Carnegie Mellon. Poetry was her specialty.”
Well, that explains how Crime Boss Barbie knows what terza rima is. I’m about to ask more—because apparently I have zero self-preservation instincts—when he suddenly shifts gears. Literally and metaphorically.
“You have a gift,” he says, those green eyes flickering toward me for a half-second before returning to the road. “I like hearing you talk. Interesting things come out of your mouth.”
Um, what?
Is this a compliment? From Giovanni “Demerits-R-Us” Bavga?
I feel my face heating up like I’m thirteen and the popular kid just noticed my Lisa Frank notebook. Which is ridiculous because I’m an adult woman with student debt and trauma, not some swoony teenager.
“Your little dissertation on Mercury retrograde and Starbucks’ seasonal menu,” he continues, his mouth quirking into something almost like a smile. “The etymology of ‘the early bird gets the worm.’”
Oh god. He’s been paying attention. Like, really paying attention. To my verbal diarrhea. To the random thoughts that leak out of my brain when I’m nervous.
“Loved your theory about how Riverview’s architecture represents ‘capitalism’s death rattle in small-town America.’”
I laugh. “I never said that.”
“No.” He smiles back. Almost chuckles. “That was me.”
“But don’t forget my analysis of why men who drive luxury cars are compensating for existential inadequacy,” I add, because apparently embarrassment makes me double down on being insufferable.
“I’m not existentially inadequate,” he says with such flat confidence that I almost believe him. “And I don’t drive this car to impress anyone.”
“Then why drive it?”
“Because I can.”
And there it is—the reminder that I’m sitting next to a man who does whatever he wants simply because nothing and no one can stop him. It’s simultaneously terrifying and... something else I refuse to name.
He smoothly changes lanes, then resumes our game like we didn’t just have whatever weird moment that was.
“I’ve had to bury a body before.”
“What?” I practically choke this word out, my heart skipping several beats as my mind races through horrifying possibilities.
He laughs for real—a rich, genuine sound that catches me off guard—and I find myself relishing it despite my alarm. Holy shit. Even his laugh is sexy, all deep and resonant, like expensive whiskey poured over ice. “The game, Emmaleen. We’re playing, right? Lie, Lie, Truth.”
I can’t tell if that question is rhetorical, literal, or figurative. My brain still feels stuck on the casual mention of body burial. “Um... yeah. We’re playing,” I manage, trying to recalibrate my thoughts from panic to playfulness.
“Well, let’s play.” His voice has that velvet-wrapped-steel quality that makes something flutter low in my stomach. “I once...” he pauses for dramatic effect, “single-handedly negotiated a multi-million-dollar deal in under a minute.”
These words easily conjure up a scene in my over-active imagination: Giovanni in a dimly lit room, surrounded by nervous men in expensive suits, his presence alone commanding the space as he casually names a figure that makes everyone else in the room sweat.
“I made a fortune as a professional poker player before taking over my family’s business,” he continues smoothly, his fingers tapping once against the steering wheel—a gesture so subtle I almost miss it.
Hmm. I don’t know. My brain immediately starts analyzing his delivery. The first statement came out too easily, like breathing. The second had a slight pause before “single-handedly,” as if he was deciding whether to exaggerate. The third had a rehearsed quality to it.
But there’s a problem. All three statements sound equally plausible for a man like Giovanni Bavga. Burying bodies? Obviously. Business deals? That’s literally his job. Poker? With that face carved from marble, showing about as much emotion as a statue of a tax accountant? He’d clean up.
My Spidey sense is failing me. Or maybe it’s just distracted by the way his profile cuts against the afternoon sun, all sharp edges and perfect symmetry, like some Renaissance sculptor got commissioned to create “Devastating Man in Expensive Suit.”
Focus, Emmaleen. This is a game of strategy, not a hot-guy Pinterest board.
I analyze the statements again. The body-burying one feels too on the nose for a mob boss to admit. The poker one seems like a convenient origin story. But the business deal...
“The second one is definitely a lie,” I decide. “Nobody single-handedly negotiates anything. There are always lawyers, assistants, someone taking notes or getting coffee.”
His eyebrow lifts slightly. “You’re assuming I play by normal business rules.”
“No, I’m assuming you’re smart enough to know that ‘single-handedly’ is never actually true. Even Batman has Alfred.”
Giovanni’s mouth twitches. “Interesting analysis. Wrong, but interesting.”
“Which part? I don’t have access to your sentence diagram.”
“What?” He actually laughs again, the sound deep and unexpected, like thunder on a clear day.
I’m so screwed. Because if he does it again, I might have to start liking him.
And liking Giovanni Bavga feels like a particularly dangerous cliff to stand on.
“Your grammar,” I clarify, trying to ignore how the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly when he’s amused.
“Wrong, but interesting. Was the statement true? Or was my guess wrong?”
He doesn’t answer me—not that question. His gaze slides over my face, assessing something I can’t identify. Instead. he says, “The poker statement is also a lie. I’m terrible at poker. My tells are too obvious.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. The man who could stare down a hungry tiger without blinking has tells? “You? Tells? You have the emotional range of a concrete block. I’ve seen mannequins with more expressive faces.”
“Precisely.” One corner of his mouth lifts in what might almost be a smile. “I’m too controlled. Real poker players know that perfect control is itself a tell. Too much stillness becomes suspicious.”
I’m still processing this revelation when the full implication of his answer crashes into me like a freight train. My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles.
“So you really did bury a body,” I say slowly, my voice coming out steadier than I feel.
“I really did.” He doesn’t even hesitate. Just states it like he’s confirming he prefers coffee to tea.
Cool cool cool cool cool. This is fine. Everything is fine. Just having a casual conversation about corpse disposal on a lovely afternoon.
“Are you gonna tell me about it?”
The words tumble out before I can stop them.
For fuck’s sake, Emmaleen! You’re playing a game with a man who shot someone when he was eight and just admitted to burying a body!
This is a crisis, not a damn therapy session! What kind of self-preserving instinct makes you ask for details?
“Do you really want to hear about it?”
Giovanni’s question hangs in the air between us, suspended like a grenade with the pin halfway out. His eyes never leave the road, but I feel the weight of his attention anyway, pressing against my skin.
“You recited your poem for me,” he continues, his voice measured in that deliberate way that makes everything sound like a business proposition. “So I guess that means I owe you a story.”
I owe you a story. As if we’re just two people trading anecdotes at a cocktail party, not a crime lord and his temporary assistant discussing casual homicide on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
Do I want to know?
Part of me—the sensible, self-preserving part that’s been systematically ignored since I got into this car—screams absolutely not.
This is how people end up as accessories after the fact.
This is how they end up needing witness protection.
This is how they end up as cautionary tales on true crime podcasts.
But the other part of me—the part that used to stay up until 3 a.m. reading dark romances where the villain gets the girl—whispers yes. Because knowledge is leverage, and I currently have none. Because every detail he shares is a breadcrumb on a trail I might need to follow back to safety someday.
Because I’m sitting next to a man who’s probably killed people, and I need to know if I’m riding with Tony Soprano or Hannibal Lecter.