Chapter 24
I wake up alone in Giovanni Bavga’s bed.
For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The sheets are too soft, the mattress too firm, the room too quiet. Then yesterday’s highlight reel starts playing in my head: the demerit notebooks, the red stilettos, the Lamborghini, the mansion, the party, the sex.
Oh god, the sex.
The shower’s running in the bathroom. Giovanni must be in there, washing away whatever happened between us last night. I wish I could do the same, but some stains don’t come out no matter how hard you scrub.
How did we get from “You’re eight minutes late, you’re fired” to “Do you like me?” in the span of a single day? The bookends of my first day working for Giovanni Bavga are so wildly incongruous that I’m getting whiplash just thinking about it.
I remember his face when he asked that question. The vulnerability beneath the steel. The way he looked almost... hopeful? But that can’t be right. Men like Giovanni don’t hope; they take.
The shower shuts off. I quickly close my eyes, pretending to be asleep. I’m not ready to face him yet, not ready to acknowledge that I might actually like the man who’s trying to control every aspect of my existence.
I hear the bathroom door open, footsteps padding across the floor, drawers sliding open and closed. I crack one eye open just enough to see Giovanni, towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets still clinging to his shoulders as he pulls clothes from a dresser in the closet.
I snap my eye shut when he turns, holding my breath until I hear him go back into the bathroom. When he emerges again, he’s fully dressed in another immaculate suit.
“I know you’re awake,” he says.
Busted. “Your powers of observation are truly remarkable.”
He doesn’t respond to my sarcasm, just walks across the room and opens a set of French doors I hadn’t noticed before. Sunlight floods the space, along with the scent of flowers.
“There’s a patio,” I say unnecessarily, sitting up and pulling the sheet around me.
Even from across the room, I can see it’s a postcard-perfect slice of curated nature.
A low hedge bursting with white flowers forms a natural fence around the perimeter.
The blooms are so densely packed they look like someone spilled whipped cream along the edges of the stone flooring.
Probably some rare botanical specimen that only grows in the tears of virgins during a blue moon.
In the center sits a small wrought iron table for two, its surface gleaming in the morning light like it’s never experienced the indignity of bird droppings or pollen.
Two matching chairs with plush cushions wait expectantly, as though Giovanni regularly hosts breakfast parties for the criminally elegant.
The stone beneath it all is some kind of expensive-looking slate in varying shades of gray—not your Home Depot special, but the kind that was probably hand-selected from an exclusive quarry in Italy where they only mine during specific phases of the moon.
It’s beautiful in that untouchable way that reminds you of your place in the world. People like me don’t get patios like this. We get fire escapes if we’re lucky, or a sliver of concrete behind an apartment building where the super stores broken appliances.
The whole setup is so pristine it makes my teeth hurt. Like everything else in Giovanni’s world, it’s designed to make ordinary people feel inadequate. Mission accomplished.
“Well,” I breathe, suddenly realizing that Giovanni has been studying me as I internally monologued about the patio. “That is… a lovely space.” I smile at him, showing all my teeth. Suddenly, everything about this moment feels awkward. “I… think it looks like a nice place to have a cup of coffee.”
“Right.” He gestures to the door. “I was thinking that. I’ll go get us some from the main house.”
“You don’t have a coffee maker in your pool house?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Giovanni looks momentarily confused, as if I’ve asked why he doesn’t have a personal helicopter pad. “I... like a French press, as you well know.”
“Ohhhh, that’s right,” I repeat slowly. The memory of the coffee I drank yesterday hits like a joke. Which it was, I think. “Kopi Ludwig. Made from animal poop—for discerning tastebuds only. Mmm. Yum, I can’t wait.”
“Luwak,” he says, but he’s smiling. “Kopi Luwak. And no, I don’t drink that shit. I told you.”
“No, it’s only for guests.”
He smiles. It’s kinda big, too. “What did it taste like?”
My eyebrows go up again. “You’ve never tasted it?”
“No, it’s gross.” He starts to laugh, but then turns away, heading towards the door. Probably so I can’t watch and take notes. “I’ll be right back. We’ll eat on the patio. We didn’t have dinner yesterday.”
Or lunch, I think as my stomach grumbles furiously in agreement. But I don’t say it out loud. No need to remind him how long he kept me standing at that motorized desk in those torture devices he calls shoes.
“Put on yesterday’s white outfit. You can change into something else when we get home. We’re leaving in thirty minutes to go back to Riverview.”
Wow. There’s a lot to unpack in those three sentences. When we get ‘home’ stands out the most. But I don’t ask questions, just give him a little salute. “Sure thing, boss.”
He gives me a look that says he knows I’m mocking him but chooses to ignore it. Then he’s gone, closing the front door behind him and leaving me alone with my thoughts and yesterday’s clothes.
I get out of bed, wincing at the soreness between my legs. A physical reminder of choices I’m still not sure I should have made.
I pick up the discarded white outfit from where it landed on the floor yesterday afternoon.
My mind drifting to the attic bedroom back in Giovanni’s Riverview mansion.
The one with the color-coded garment bags hanging in perfect formation.
White, black, pink, peach, gray, red, light green.
A rainbow of control, each one containing another version of the woman Giovanni wants me to be.
Everything is so confusing now. Yesterday morning, this was just a job. A weird, boundary-crossing job with a system of demerits and rewards, but still just a job. A means to an end. Thirty-one thousand dollars and my freedom.
But now? Now there’s been poetry in wisteria tunnels and confessions in the dark. Now there’s been “Do you like me?” and my body’s betrayal when he touches me. Now there’s been his trauma and mine, laid bare like matching wounds.
It doesn’t feel like a game anymore. Games have rules you can understand, strategies you can plan. This feels like freefall.
I slip off the shirt and shorts I took from Giovanni’s closet last night and stand naked in the middle of the room, vulnerable in more ways than one. Maybe this is working? Maybe I can survive this game after all?
The white outfit feels like a costume now, a role I’m not sure I want to play anymore. But what choice do I have? Twenty-one days until homelessness. Five demerits left after points shuffling of last night.
I’m just about to step into the skirt when I hear soft footsteps behind me.
“Did you forget something—” I begin, turning around.
But it’s not Giovanni.
It’s Rico.
And I’m… naked.
His eyes crawl over every inch of my body like invasive insects.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My mind scrambles through options like I’m speed-dating catastrophes. Cover myself? No—that’s what prey does. Run? To where, exactly? The bathroom with its flimsy lock that a toddler could kick through?
“Giovanni will be back any second,” I say, my voice impressively steady for someone whose heart is trying to punch its way out of her chest. “He just went to get coffee. Feel free to wait on the patio.”
The patio. That’s how he got in. The door stands open behind Rico, morning light streaming in like it’s not the opening scene of a horror movie.
Rico’s smile stretches too wide, revealing teeth that look expensive and predatory. “I know exactly where my cousin is. I watched him leave.”
Holy shit. This moment went from potentially dangerous to certainly lethal in the span of eleven words.
He’s been watching us. And from the looks of him, he’s been doing more than watching.
His burgundy suit pants—the same ones from yesterday’s party—hang dangerously low on his hips, exposing a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband. The bulge below is unmistakable.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
“Let me just throw some clothes on and—”
“Don’t bother,” Rico says, taking a step toward me. “I like you better this way. Makes things easier.”
My pulse thunders in my ears. “Makes… what easier?”
“That pussy of yours looked so good last night when you were riding Giovanni in the cabana.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “The way you moved... I knew I had to have a taste.”
I take a step back, bumping into the edge of the bed. “I don’t think Giovanni would appreciate you being here.”
Rico’s laugh sounds a lot like menace. “You don’t understand how things work in our family, do you? We share. Everything.” He gestures broadly. “This house. The business. The women.”
My mouth goes dry. “That’s not true.”
“No?” He takes another step closer. “Why do you think he left you here, all alone? He knows the rules. I get to have you any way I want. Ass, pussy, mouth. Maybe all three.”
I’m trembling now, unable to stop it. “You’re lying. Giovanni hates you.”
“Hate doesn’t matter in our world, sweetheart. Debt does. And his family owes mine.” Rico’s eyes glitter with malice. “You think you’re special? You think you’ve ‘fallen for the gangster’ and he’s fallen for you? How fucking stupid are you?”
Each word lands like a slap. I want to believe he’s lying, but doubt creeps in like poison. Giovanni’s family. The emergency in Pittsburgh. The way everyone deferred to Rico at the party.
“Giovanni Bavga is nothing but a weak little boy who wishes he was born into a more powerful family,” Rico continues, close enough now that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and cloying.
“He can’t protect you. Don’t you understand?
Even if he does come back, he’s not going to stop me.
His father told him to let me do anything I want. ”
My brain is working overtime, searching for a plan, an escape route, anything.
“Why do you think I’m here, in his estate, acting like it belongs to me?” Rico’s smile widens. “Because it does. And he knows this. If he comes back, he’ll let me finish. Trust me.”
He reaches out, running a finger down my arm. I jerk away, but there’s nowhere to go.
“I want to fuck you,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather. “But not here.”
Not here? What does that mean? My confusion must show on my face because Rico’s expression shifts, predatory calculation replacing casual cruelty.
He moves so fast I barely have time to raise my hands in defense. His fingers tangle in my hair, yanking my head back as he drags me toward the open patio door.
Oh god. He’s not just going to rape me. He’s going to take me somewhere. Just like his father did to Giovanni.
“Let go of me!” I kick wildly, connecting with his shin. Rico swears, his grip tightening painfully.
“Fucking bitch,” he hisses, slapping me hard across the face. “Keep fighting. I like it better when they fight.”
The words trigger something in me—a flashback to my ex standing over me, same words, same tone. Same helpless feeling.
No. Not again. Never again.
As Rico drags me past a bookshelf, my hand closes around something cold and heavy—a steel sculpture, modern and angular. I manage to get my feet under me just enough to swing it with all my strength.
It connects with Rico’s temple with a sickening crack. Blood sprays across my face, warm and metallic.
For one glorious second, I think I’ve won. Then Rico’s eyes narrow, blood streaming down his cheek, and I realize I’ve just made things infinitely worse.
“You’re going to regret that,” he growls, lunging forward.
His open palm connects with my face so hard I see stars. He grabs my hair again, dragging me across the slippery floor. I’m screaming now, dignity forgotten, survival the only goal, as I stumble after him.
He stoops, picks up the fallen sculpture, and weighs it in his hand. His smile is all teeth. “Let’s see how you like it.”
The blow lands. Pain explodes across my temple. My skull rings. Blood floods down my cheek, hot and fast.
Then—another explosion.
For a moment, I think it’s me. But as more hot blood spatters across my face, Rico’s grip on my hair suddenly loosens. The world spins and light scatters asI blink through the red haze and see what’s left of him—his head split open, eyes gone, skull a ruin.
The room lurches. My knees buckle. As I hit the floor beside Rico, I catch a final, impossible image—Giovanni Bavga standing in the doorway. A gun in his hand.
Then… darkness.