Chapter 4 #2
Immediately, another mark goes in the book. The masked figure doesn't even look up as he writes it.
I force myself back to the text, the rage building with each new article. Article VIII demands silence at meals, at gatherings, during punishment. Article IX demands immediate responses—within two counts. Article X controls my clothing and appearance.
When I reach Article XI about twice-daily "inspections" of my posture, cleanliness, and dress, I can't help the derisive scoff that escapes me.
Another demerit noted. Apparently sounds count the same as words.
By Article XII, which promises that "every infraction, no matter how small" will be corrected, I'm white-knuckling the edges of the desk. Article XIII demands I anticipate Giovanni's needs. Article XIV forbids me from speaking about the Doctrine to others.
And then, Article XV: Loyalty. Four simple, terrifying lines.
You belong to me.
Hesitation is disloyalty.
Disloyalty is betrayal.
Betrayal is death.
The manual continues relentlessly, Appendices detailing every possible infraction and consequence. Speaking out of turn. Making eye contact without permission. Fidgeting. Being late. Moving incorrectly. Touching without permission. Failing rituals.
Each with its own swift, specific punishment.
By the time I reach the closing words, I'm trembling. Not with laughter or even fear—with pure, distilled rage.
"These are not suggestions. These are the law of belonging to me.
You will fail, and you will be corrected.
This is the path you chose when you agreed to stand in my shadow.
Your service will be measured against this Doctrine every hour, every day.
If you falter, you will be reshaped. And if you break, you will be gone. "
— Giovanni Bavga
The Doctrine sits open before me, severe and binding, already punctuated by the demerits I've earned just by existing in its presence. Three marks against me, and I've barely begun.
But something hardens inside me, a seed of defiance crystallizing into resolve. If Giovanni thinks this is how he wins—by burying me under an avalanche of impossible rules and inevitable failure—he has catastrophically underestimated me.
The more rules he places, the more determined I become to survive every single one of them. Not because I want to belong to him. Not because I accept his doctrine. But because I refuse to lose this way.
I'll learn every rule. I'll obey every article. I'll be so fucking perfect at his little game that he'll have no choice but to face me himself instead of hiding behind this leather-bound bullshit and his masked enforcer.
The masked figure sets down two items on my desk with theatrical precision.
First, a keyring with a single skeleton key—antique, brass, the kind you'd find in a Gothic novel where the heroine makes terrible life choices. It gleams dully in the candlelight, so perfectly staged it might as well have its own Instagram filter.
Second, a fountain pen. Not some BIC ballpoint from the junk drawer, but a weighty Mont Blanc positioned with militaristic precision beside the signature line of the Doctrine, the nib pointing accusingly at the blank space awaiting my name.
A choice that isn't really a choice. How very Giovanni.
"The key to the door upstairs is yours and at any time, you may use it," the masked man says, his voice carrying that same stilted cadence, like he's reading off ritual cards at a cult induction.
"Upon using it to exit the dungeon, you will find a stainless-steel box containing sixty-three thousand five hundred dollars, a new name, a new passport, and a plane ticket to Paradise, whatever that means to you, once you step outside.
You are free. Free to choose. Because when taking big risks, there must always be a choice, Miss Take.
You may leave, but if you do, you will never return. "
The way he says "Miss Take" makes my skin crawl. It's Giovanni's nickname for me, not his. The theft of it feels more invasive than the riding crop against my hand.
His gloved finger slides from the key to the pen in a gesture so deliberate it borders on pornographic.
"Or sign, and belong to him." The masked man leans forward, and I can see his eyes glittering through the holes in the mask.
"And by him, I mean... ME. I am your Master until you fail or graduate.
You will live in my dungeon until I pronounce you worthy of leaving and serving your true master, Giovanni.
But until that time, while you are here, you are MINE. Choose now."
The words hit like a plot twist in a bad thriller. This isn't just some enforcer Giovanni hired to intimidate me. This is the training wheels version of Giovanni himself—a proxy Dom, the understudy to whatever sick power play Giovanni has planned.
I'm supposed to graduate from this guy to Giovanni? Like some fucked-up finishing school for... what? Submission? Servitude?
He returns to his throne, settling into it with the measured movements of someone who's practiced looking intimidating in a chair. The silence stretches between us, heavy with expectation.
I stare at the two objects.
The key represents freedom. I could grab it, bolt up those stairs, and never look back. I could go back to the shelter, back to job applications and minimum wage and the slow, grinding descent into homelessness.
I'd have my dignity, at least. Whatever that's worth these days.
Sixty-three thousand five hundred dollars, apparently.
Yeah, that’s not pocket change. That’s a car. That’s paying off every credit card I’ve ever dramatically thrown in a freezer. That’s… well, an entire year of my life if I played it safe. But double or nothing was never about money.
It was about—
Don’t you dare say love, Emmaleen. You say the L-word and I will throat-punch myself just to spite you.
It was about a chance. That’s what I wanted. One stupid chance.
Because here’s this man—this honestly terrifying, occasionally magnetic, morally-bankrupt man—who poured his heart out to me in notebooks while I was in the hospital.
Literal me—hair greasy, face gray, gown exposing everything in the worst possible fluorescent lighting.
And still, he stayed. He wrote. He gave me words.
Me. The Word Collector.
It was a gift. And like an absolute idiot, I missed it.
So, no, this isn’t some Hallmark channel fantasy where we kiss under Christmas lights and adopt a golden retriever. This isn’t “happily ever after.” Forget that.
This is about trust.
He trusted me. Me, of all people. I’m the witness to his greatest crime.
And sure, I’d bet every penny of this sixty-three grand that Rico LaRiccia wasn’t his first kill.
But I’m also sure—in that dark, gut-deep way women just know things—that Giovanni has never left a witness like me.
Not someone outside the fold. Not someone who wasn’t already his blood.
That means something.
No—I mean something. To him.
I want those moments back.
Didn't I earn it?
Apparently not, because now he wants to discard me like a cigarette stub.
And here's why I can't walk away. Here’s the ugly truth: for the rest of forever, I will compare every man I meet, every maybe-he's-the-one boyfriend, every Tinder swipe, against Giovanni Bavga.
And they will all, every single one of them, come up short.
So no. It’s not love.
It’s trust.
Which, God help me, might be even worse.
I force myself to look at the masked man, at his gloved hands, at the riding crop that struck with such precision. At the room designed for correction and submission. At the cabinets that undoubtedly hold instruments of pain, or pleasure, or both.
The choice hangs in the air between us, unresolved, my hand suspended in its moment of decision.
The key isn’t freedom into nothing. It’s freedom into everything. I don’t have to reject his offer and go back to the shelter, preserving my dignity.
I could take the pay off.
A new name. A new country. Giovanni’s money cushioning every step. A clean slate he’s practically gift-wrapping for me, all tied in silk and stamped with his signature ability to erase people from existence.
Door number one: safety, anonymity, a life where no one ever calls me by the name Emmaleen Rourke again.
Door number two: Giovanni Bavga. His Doctrine. His rules. His brand of chaos, and cruelty, and notebooks in the dark.
One life where he never touches me again.
One life where every touch belongs to him.
It’s not a choice.
It just isn't.
It never is with men like Giovanni Bavga.