Chapter 17 Giovanni
Deal.
She has no idea what she just agreed to. I could laugh if I wasn’t so fucking furious.
My blood runs hot beneath my skin, pressure building behind my eyes. A tactical error on my part—letting her see that I care enough to be angry. I school my features back to neutral, though my jaw remains tight enough to crack teeth.
Little Miss Take. Every time I think I’ve cataloged all her mistakes, she invents a new one.
She’s standing there, spine straight, chin lifted, like some martyr facing the firing squad. The stubborn defiance in her eyes tells me everything I need to know about why she’s in this position. Too proud to take the money and run. Too naive to understand what’s coming.
Fine. She wants to play the part? I’ll make sure she understands exactly what she’s signed up for.
I stride to the closet, yanking open a drawer with more force than necessary.
The wood protests, sliding past its stops.
Inside are neatly folded T-shirts—black, white, gray.
I select a white one, ball it up, and toss it at her.
She catches it against her chest, those wide green eyes following my movements.
“Put this on. No bra.” My voice sounds like gravel under tires. “These fuckers outside? They’re going to be looking at your tits all night anyway. Might as well make them bounce.”
The shock on her face is almost worth it. Almost.
“And don’t give me that fucking virgin schoolgirl look. You want to be my arm candy for Rico’s little party? This is what that means. You’re a decoration, Emmaleen. A fucking accessory.”
I reach for my tie, loosening the knot with practiced efficiency. Her gaze drops to my hands, then back to my face.
When she takes a step toward the bathroom, I move faster, blocking her path with my arm. The wall is cool against my palm as I lean in, close enough to see the freckles across her nose.
“Oh, hell no. You put that on in front of me. That’s what you signed up for, remember?”
I strip my tie off in one smooth motion, slipping it through the collar and letting it fall to the floor. My fingers work the buttons of my shirt methodically, one by one. A performance for her benefit.
She hesitates, then toes off her heels. Her hands tremble as she reaches for the zipper of her skirt, pushing it down her legs without looking at me. Then she’s buying time, folding it with precise movements. Playing for dignity she no longer has.
I don’t help her. Don’t make her more comfortable. Don’t look away, either. This is the consequence she chose.
My shirt joins her skirt on the bed. Then my pants, revealing the knife strapped to my ankle. She looks at it with wide eyes. Like she’s shocked I was armed. I stand before her in black boxer briefs, watching her watch me. The air between us feels charged, dangerous.
When she finally unbuttons her blouse, her fingers fumble on the third button. She’s shaking, face flushed with humiliation as she slides it off her shoulders. The T-shirt goes on quickly, like armor.
“I said no fucking bra. You think those silicone-filled whores out there are wearing underwear? Take. It. Off.”
She turns away, reaches under the shirt, and performs some female magic that extracts the bra without removing the shirt. Meanwhile, I’m looking at her round, smooth cheeks peeking out from either side of the thong riding the crack of her ass.
When Emmaleen turns back to face me, her shoulders squared and chin lifted. The white cotton clings to her curves, outlining every detail I’m not supposed to notice. Her nipples peak against the thin fabric, a physical reaction she can’t control despite the defiance burning in her eyes.
I’ve seen that look before. Saturday night at the hotel, when crystal shattered around her feet and that pompous manager berated her. The same quiet dignity. The same refusal to break.
It’s the wrong fucking move right now.
My cock hardens instantly, blood rushing south with such force I nearly sway. The same reaction I had in the shower that night, when I first imagined having her beneath me. When I planned this entire week.
Her confidence pisses me off. What the fuck does she have to be confident about? She has no fucking idea who Rico is. What he’s done. What he would do to her if I gave him the chance.
“You think this is a game?” I ask, my voice low and dangerous.
She doesn’t answer. Just holds my gaze like she’s my equal. Like we’re negotiating terms.
I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my boxer briefs and drop them to the floor. My erection springs free, heavy and hard between us.
She should be staring. Intimidated. Overwhelmed.
Instead, her eyes remain locked on mine. She deliberately refuses to look down, to acknowledge what’s happening. To fully see me.
And that’s the problem here.
She hasn’t fully seen me yet.
I close the distance between us in two strides. She backs up instinctively, one step, then another, until she runs out of room. Her back hits the door with a soft thud.
I reach down, grabbing her under her knees, and hike her up against the door.
My hips pin her lower body, my erection pressed against her core through the thin barrier of her underwear.
Forced to grab me by the shoulders to steady herself, her breath catches, eyes widening with the first real flicker of fear.
I lean in close, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You have no idea what you’ve just agreed to.” She shivers against me.
Her hands brace against my shoulders, neither pushing me away nor pulling me closer. Suspended in indecision.
“You’re mine now. As long as you’re here, you’re mine.” I press harder against her, making sure she feels every inch of what she’s provoked. “You will do everything I say. And it all starts now.”
I pull back just enough to see her face. “Look at me.”
She swallows hard, fear evident in the rapid pulse at her throat. But she lifts her gaze to mine, steady and unwavering. Taking my challenge head-on.
“Miss Take,” I whisper, close enough to feel her breath on my lips. “Only when this is all over will you realize just how big of a mistake you’re making right now.”
Emmaleen is breathing so hard, she’s almost panting. Her breasts heave against the thin white cotton, each inhale pushing her nipples against my chest. She’s still staring, still defiant—like a woman who thinks she has options.
I lower my voice to a precision cut. “You’ll be the only woman with clothes on.
The rest will be naked or might as well be.
” I grind against her, making sure she feels every inch of what she’s provoking.
“Every man out there will be looking at you, wondering what’s underneath.
Wanting to rip this shirt off. Wanting to see what I’m keeping for myself. ”
Her pulse hammers at her throat—visible, quantifiable fear. Yet her eyes remain locked on mine. Fascinating. Infuriating.
“You’re a lamb in the wolf’s den, Emmaleen.” I trace one finger down her jaw, cataloging the minute tremors in her muscles. “You’re nothing but a meal.”
Rico collects weaknesses like trophies. He’ll spot hers in seconds. The vulnerability. The desperation. The pride she wears like armor over paper-thin defenses.
She shakes her head no. A small, tight movement.
Something snaps inside me—the last thread of control I’ve been clinging to since seeing Rico in my father’s driveway.
“Speak!” The word explodes from me, loud enough to make her flinch.
Good. She should be afraid. She should run while she still can. I don’t want to win this little game anymore. I’ve already won. The second she followed me into my restaurant, I won.
I want her to get out before she can’t. To walk away from this life before it swallows her the way it swallowed me. The way it’s been consuming me since I was born.
I never had a choice. This life was my inheritance. My birthright. My prison sentence.
But she does. She still has time to choose differently.
Tears well in her eyes, but she remains silent. Stubborn. Stupid.
“Last. Chance.” I growl the words between clenched teeth.
She shakes her head again. Defiant to the end. Like she’s proving something to herself.
“Fucking speak!” The words tear from my throat, raw and unfiltered. I never lose control like this. Never. “Say something or get the fuck out!”
“I’m yours,” she whispers, each word precise and deliberate, hanging in the charged air between us like a confession.
Her voice trembles slightly, but her eyes remain steady, locked on mine with a determination that burns through her fear.
“I will do everything you say, whatever you want, whenever you want it. I’m making this choice—me. Right here, right now.”
The words land like physical blows against my chest. There’s a surrender in them, yes, but also a strange power—as if by choosing submission, she’s found some kind of freedom I can’t comprehend.
Like there’s power in her surrender. A twisted kind of strength radiating from her willingness to bend rather than break. As if by offering herself up, she’s somehow claiming control over her own fate—redefining the very nature of submission into something almost... dignified.
She’s wrong. Completely, utterly wrong.
Power comes from conquering.
From domination.
From bending others to your will until they forget they ever had choices of their own.
It’s taking what you want and making others thank you for the privilege of giving it. It’s the boot on the neck, not the neck that yields to avoid breaking.
This truth is written in my blood, carved into my bones since childhood.
But it doesn’t matter anymore. Because she just gave me what I was looking for all along.
Permission.
Permission to control her completely.
Permission to dictate every aspect of her existence—when she sleeps, what she eats, who she speaks to.
Permission to dominate her in ways as yet unimaginable.
To bend her will until it matches the shape of my own desires.