Chapter 18 Emmaleen
There’s only one rule in my life now: don’t flinch. Not when you’re sticky with someone else’s power and about to walk into a party full of wolves.
Giovanni takes my hand as we exit the pool house, his grip possessive rather than affectionate.
His fingers are warm and steady, while mine probably feel like I’m conducting electricity.
Which, honestly, I might be. My body is still humming from what just happened—still processing the way he lifted me against that door like I weighed nothing, the way his mouth claimed mine, the way I responded like my body had been waiting for him specifically.
God, what is wrong with me? Stockholm syndrome doesn’t usually kick in this fast, does it?
But it wasn’t just the physical part that’s left me reeling.
It was that moment—that single, disorienting moment—when he pushed my hair back from my face.
His fingers against my cheek, so gentle it felt like a hallucination in the middle of all that aggression.
That tenderness was more devastating than anything else he did to me.
Even when he got rougher, grabbing my hips hard enough to leave marks, I didn’t want him to stop. I’ve never felt anything like it—like being consumed and seen at the same time. Like being the only thing that matters in someone’s universe for five minutes.
And now we’re heading to a party where I’m supposed to be his property. Great. From metaphorical objectification to literal objectification. At least I’m getting the full misogyny experience package.
But I know what I said to him was true. Giovanni Bavga isn’t going to let anyone touch me. Even if he’s furious with me, even if he regrets what just happened between us—the man I just witnessed losing control doesn’t share. He’s not wired that way. His possessiveness radiates from him like heat.
We step into what can only be described as a botanical cathedral.
A tunnel of wisteria arches over us, purple-blue blooms hanging in cascades that transform the evening light into something otherworldly.
The fragrance is intoxicating—sweet but not cloying, like expensive perfume that knows exactly when to stop.
The pathway beneath our feet crunches softly, and subtle lighting along the edges makes the whole thing glow like something from a fairy tale.
It’s ridiculously, offensively beautiful—the kind of place designed for lovers’ whispered promises and stolen kisses. Not for a mob boss and his reluctant, post-coital assistant with six demerits.
The romantic setting makes what just happened between us feel even more surreal. Like we’re actors who wandered onto the wrong set. This should be a scene from a romance novel, not whatever horror-thriller-dark-comedy hybrid I’m currently starring in.
Giovanni stops abruptly, his hand tightening around mine. “It’s like he brought the entire city of New York with him,” he mutters, jaw clenching. “What a dick. I can’t believe my father agreed to this.”
I follow his gaze beyond the wisteria tunnel to where the party spills across the property. There must be at least a hundred people swarming around an Olympic-sized pool, steam floating up off the surface like a mist, glowing an unnatural blue in the gathering twilight.
The contrast between the wisteria’s delicate beauty and the debauchery ahead is jarring, like walking from a cathedral straight into a nightclub.
Or, more accurately, from a romance novel into a crime thriller where I’m definitely not the protagonist—just the disposable girl who doesn’t make it past chapter three.
The scent of wisteria is making me dizzy, or maybe it’s the whiplash from going from homeless-shelter resident to mob-boss plaything in under twenty-four hours.
The flowers hang like purple chandeliers above us, impossibly lush and dripping with sweetness that feels almost narcotic. Nature’s very own designer drug.
Giovanni’s fingers tighten around mine as he leans in, his breath warm against my ear. The closeness makes my skin prickle with sense memory. Door. Hands. Teeth. Focus, Emmaleen.
“Here are the rules. Are you listening?”
I look up at him—at those impossibly beautiful green eyes of his—and nod. Why does darkness have to be so beautiful?
“One. Do not leave my sight unless I order you to.”
His voice has that CEO-meets-drill-sergeant quality that would be comical if it weren’t attached to someone who probably has people buried in concrete foundations.
“Two. Do not drink. Not a single fucking drop, do you understand me? This isn’t a joke. This is not me being alpha, or whatever. You have no idea what kind of drugs are in the drinks, but let me be very clear—there are drugs in the drinks.”
Oh great, so it’s not just regular old crime-lord debauchery, it’s roofie-roulette. Fantastic. The evening just keeps upgrading from “terrible life choice” to “potential Law & Order: SVU episode.”
“Three. Do not smoke anything.”
Wasn’t planning on it, but thanks for the reminder that I’m attending a party where inhalable felonies are on the menu alongside canapés.
“Four. If anyone touches you, do not react. Do not give them a reason to take notice of you. I will be watching, and I’ll take care of it.”
Translation: Don’t flinch when Rico’s goons grope you because Giovanni’s fragile ego requires that he be the only one defending his property. Charming. I’m basically a walking, talking territorial dispute.
He stares at me expectantly, those piercing green eyes searching mine. “Do you understand?”
I look up at him, noting the way his jaw still carries tension from our encounter. The T-shirt I’m wearing smells like him—expensive and masculine, probably with a name like “Midnight Swagger” or “Executive Dominance.”
“Yes,” I say, then because apparently my survival instinct is broken beyond repair, I add: “You’re awfully protective of someone you were trying to teach a lesson with your dick five minutes ago.”
The flash in his eyes could power a small city. For a second, I think he might drag me back to the pool house for round two of “Establishing Dominance: The Wall-Fuck Edition.”
Instead, he gives me a little push forward, his hand finding the small of my back with a pressure that’s somehow both warning and claiming. We leave the wisteria tunnel’s enchanted corridor and step into what looks like the unholy lovechild of a Diddy white party and a Scorsese film.
It’s like someone took every music video cliché, added a sprinkle of “things that would make my mother cry,” and garnished it with “people who could make me disappear without a trace.”
And here I am, in a thong, a T-shirt that barely covers my ass, no bra, and evidence of Giovanni Bavga between my thighs, walking into this den of iniquity like I belong here.
Twenty-one days until homelessness, Emmaleen. Eight demerits. Thirty-one thousand dollars.
My chains, my choice.
I repeat this like a mantra as Giovanni guides me forward, his hand burning through the thin cotton of his shirt like a branding iron.
The pool area looks like someone took the concept of “Caligula” and handed the production design to a coked-up Miami nightclub owner with something to prove.
Bodies—so many naked bodies—writhe and sprawl across every available surface.
The women are universally naked, their skin gleaming with oil or sweat or both, hair perfectly styled despite their complete lack of clothing.
It’s like an Instagram feed come to life, minus the strategic censorship.
I’m suddenly, acutely aware that I’m the only woman here wearing anything at all.
My T-shirt might as well be a Victorian ball gown compared to everyone else’s birthday suits.
The men, at least some of them, have maintained the dignity of pants or shorts, though several are letting it all hang out with the casual confidence of people who’ve never worried about anything in their lives.
Water splashes from the infinity pool as two women chase each other, giggling. The sound is jarringly innocent against the backdrop of whatever the hell this is. A modern-day bacchanal with better drugs and worse intentions.
“Eyes down,” Giovanni murmurs, his fingers pressing into my hip.
Too late. I’ve already spotted him—Rico—holding court by the bar.
He’s still wearing those burgundy suit pants, but his chest is bare, revealing a canvas of tattoos that spiral across his torso.
Not the random scrawls of someone who collects ink on drunken weekends, but deliberate artwork telling some story I don’t want to know.
And then his eyes—dark, calculating—find mine across the crowd.
I look away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. Mistake. Looking at him feels like making eye contact with a predator that’s already decided you’re dinner.
Giovanni’s hand slides to my lower back, steering me toward a poolside cabana.
It’s draped in white fabric that billows slightly in the evening breeze, creating the illusion of privacy without the substance of it.
Inside, three men and two women are engaged in activities that would make a porn director blush.
Giovanni snaps his fingers. “Out.”
They look up, annoyed at the interruption, but recognition flashes across their faces when they see who’s speaking. They disentangle themselves with surprising speed, gathering discarded clothing and scurrying away like cockroaches when the light comes on.
One of the women—blonde, surgically enhanced to cartoonish proportions—gives Giovanni a lingering look as she passes. He doesn’t even acknowledge her existence.
“Sit,” Giovanni commands, lowering himself onto the plush white couch that’s just been... evacuated.
I hesitate, eyeing the upholstery with forensic suspicion.
“Not there,” he says, patting his thighs. “Here.”
Oh.
Oh no.
“Straddle me,” he clarifies, as if I might be confused about the mechanics.
My stomach performs an elaborate gymnastics routine as I move toward him. This is fine. Just straddling a mob boss at a sex party while wearing no pants. Tuesday things. Normal girl stuff.
I settle onto his lap, my thighs spread across his, the thin cotton of my underwear the only barrier between us. His erection presses against me, hard and insistent, a reminder of what happened in the pool house. What might happen again. Here. In front of everyone.
My heartbeat sounds like a bass drum in my ears. I’m so focused on Giovanni that I don’t notice Rico approaching until he’s right there, dropping onto the couch beside us with casual entitlement.
“Aren’t you going to introduce your woman, cousin?” Rico’s voice carries a slight New York accent, smooth and practiced like a TV mobster.
Giovanni’s hands slide up my sides, then down to grip my hips, encouraging a subtle rocking motion that makes his intentions perfectly clear. I’m supposed to put on a show while he... what? Discusses the weather?
“The Gonzalez shipment arrived,” Giovanni says, completely ignoring Rico’s question. “Three days early. Might be worth looking into why.”
Are they seriously having a business conversation right now? While I’m basically dry-humping Giovanni in front of the entire party? This is some next-level power play bullshit.
Fine. Two can play.
I lean forward, pressing my lips against Giovanni’s neck. His skin is warm, slightly salty. I feel his pulse jump under my mouth, a tiny tell that satisfies something primal in me. His hands tighten on my ass, fingers digging in possessively.
“Did you hear what I said?” Giovanni continues, his voice remarkably steady despite my best efforts. “Three days early could mean—”
I graze my teeth against his throat, and his sentence falters for just a microsecond.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he says, recovering, but I feel his heart hammering against my chest. “My whore is getting horny.” Then he turns his head to me.
“You want my big cock again, baby?” Giovanni asks, his voice dropping to a growl that vibrates through me.
“Twice in ten minutes? You’re fucking insatiable. ”
The abrupt shift from business to dirty talk gives me conversational whiplash. I freeze against him, heat flooding my face.
Rico laughs, a sound like expensive whiskey poured over broken glass. “Must be nice having a girl who can’t get enough. My last one needed a fucking instruction manual and still couldn’t get me off right.”
The casual misogyny makes my skin crawl, but Giovanni’s hands are holding me in place, reminding me of rule number four: do not react.
“Fuck off, Rico,” Giovanni says, his tone casual but with steel underneath. “I’m trying to finish what she started.”
Rico holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes—those calculating, cold eyes—linger on me for a beat too long before he rises and saunters away.
The cabana offers the suggestion of privacy, gauzy curtains creating the illusion of walls, but I’m acutely aware of eyes on us. Men watching from the pool deck, from the bar, from loungers strategically positioned for the best view. This is a performance, and I’m the star attraction.
What’s most disturbing is the electric current running through me at the thought. I should be terrified, disgusted, planning my escape.
Instead, I’m... excited?
The possibility of Giovanni taking me here, with an audience, sends a shameful thrill through my body that I can’t entirely blame on survival instincts or Stockholm syndrome.
I’ve never been an exhibitionist. Never even considered it. But something about the danger, the forbidden nature of it all, the complete departure from my careful, controlled existence—it’s intoxicating in the worst possible way.
Giovanni’s hands slide up my T-shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare back as he studies my face, reading me like my expression is a neon sign.
“You like this,” he says quietly, not a question but an observation. His thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts, and I can’t suppress a shiver.
God help me, I think I do.