Chapter 6 #2
Says the man with the obvious erection. Sure, Jan.
I mean, the entire reason I'm here is to make him admit he…
Do not say love. I wasn't going to say it. It's definitely not love.
Admit that he… enjoys me. Maybe even likes me. The way I enjoy him and like him back.
"Your posture is slipping," he observes, tapping the crop against my shoulder blade. "Back straight. From obedience, power. From loyalty, safety. From silence, survival. You'd do well to remember that motto."
Great, now I'm getting Mafia fortune cookies. What's next, my lucky numbers for the week? Your future holds great promise... if you can keep your knees together and your mouth shut.
"Ya know, you're making a huge mistake."
"How so?" I ask.
"You think this is a game. I know you think that you and Giovanni have a history. He told me about your first day on the job. The only day you managed to complete because you made terrible choices and ended up being brained by Rico LaRiccia less than twenty-four hours later, forcing Giovanni to assume responsibility for your care because you couldn’t seem to follow the rules. ”
Wait. What? “What does that mean?”
“Clarify. Which part of what I said confused you?”
“I couldn’t seem to follow the rules?”
“Giovanni hired you, did he not?”
“He did.”
“He took you to Rico’s sex party, true?”
“True.”
“And you acted like a little slut, didn’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Again, what part do you find confusing?”
“Slut?”
“Did you fuck Giovanni in full view of everyone?”
“Yes, but—”
“And did you challenge Rico with your defiant attitude? Looking directly into his eyes when instructed not to?”
“Umm…” I did do that. By mistake. It was an accident. But how would Giovanni even know that? I was looking over Giovanni’s shoulder when—
“Well, Miss Take… what do you think happens to young naked ladies at sex parties when they are fucking a mob boss and challenge his mortal enemy with direct eye contact while doing it?”
Is he… actually blaming that whole thing on me?
Oh, fuck. Then it hits me. Giovanni didn’t tell him.
The Crop Master here has no idea that Giovanni killed Rico.
And I guess that makes sense. Who is this guy?
Probably some rando psychopath who runs the local sex club.
The fact that Giovanni killed Rico is… world altering.
I’m not really sure what it means specifically, but one can safely assume it falls under the category ‘bad things.’
I look up at the Master, wondering if I should clarify. Giovanni didn’t tell me not to say anything about that night. There were no explicit instructions in the notebooks he left behind. No note inside the stainless-steel case that said, Keep your mouth shut or else.
But it’s common sense, isn’t it?
When you witness a mobster kill a crime family god, you shut the fuck up or wear concrete shoes.
So… why am I here?
Why is Giovanni even playing this game with me?
“Hello.” Crack. The crop skims across my nipple with frightening precision. Pain blooms—but so does my traitorous arousal. “Are you listening to me?” Master asks.
I look down. “I’m sorry. My mind was wandering.”
He huffs. "Are you stupid, Emmaleen. Or do you like to be violated."
Something in his tone changes—drops lower, colder. The playfulness vanishes like it was never there. My skin prickles with goosebumps that have nothing to do with being naked in a basement.
“I don’t understand the question. I’m not stupid.”
“No. you’re not. So you like to be violated.”
"I don’t like to be violated, either. It's not a zero-sum game, Master." I try to keep my voice steady, but there's a tremor I can't quite control.
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel his breath against my ear. "Oh, it so is, my stupid little sub. In this world—the world Giovanni and I live in—zero-sum is all we have."
His voice has gone quiet, almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse. "You know what happened to the last woman who thought she understood Giovanni Bavga? He didn't kill her, if that's what you're thinking. That would be crude. Wasteful."
He circles me slowly. "No. He took her. Piece by piece. First her confidence. Then her independence. Her personality. Her choices. Her voice. Her will. By the time he was done, she was hollow—just a perfect, beautiful shell that moved when he pulled the strings."
A cold knot forms in my stomach.
"And when he grew tired of her—which he did, because he always does—he discarded her.
Not with violence. With indifference. Which is far worse.
" He stops in front of me, tilting my chin up with the crop.
"Last I heard, she was working in some café in Toronto.
She flinches when men speak too loudly. Can't make decisions without asking permission first. Doesn't even remember who she used to be. "
I swallow hard, suddenly questioning everything I thought I knew about the man who brought me here.
"Giovanni doesn't destroy women, Emmaleen. He remakes them into what he wants. And when he's done with his creation, he simply... sets it aside. Like a child bored with a toy." His eyes bore into mine. "You think you're different? Special? They all did."
My head spins like a carousel with all its light bulbs shot out.
His words slicing through my defenses, nicking all the places I've tried to armor up.
For a terrifying moment, I can't conjure a single snarky thought.
My inner monologue—usually a relentless stream of commentary—stutters and buffers like a YouTube video on dial-up.
Pull it together, Emmaleen.
The sick thing is, I can picture it perfectly. Giovanni, methodically disassembling a woman piece by piece, his precise hands separating her components like one of those exploded-view diagrams. The beautiful shell in Toronto, flinching at loud voices.
I close my eyes, trying to force my brain back online.
Get. A. Grip.
What the hell am I doing here? Standing naked in a basement while a ski-masked man circles me like a shark. There's a literal riding crop involved. And a manual of submission that reads like it was written by a control freak with a thesaurus and a God complex.
Giovanni clearly wants me gone. Here’s your prize, Miss Take. Cash, a plane ticket, a new identity. Take it and run. When that didn't work, he resorted to... whatever the fuck this is. Submission Boot Camp. Demerits and humiliation and rules designed to break me.
And yet I'm still here. Why?
My brain offers up a series of increasingly stupid answers:
Because I need the money. (The money is upstairs, practically begging me to take it.)
Because I'm stubborn. (There's stubborn, and then there's whatever standing naked in a basement qualifies as.)
Because I have nowhere else to go. (The world is large. Toronto, apparently, has cafés.)
Because I want to win. (Win what, exactly? The privilege of being hollowed out?)
But beneath all those half-truths lurks the real reason, the one I'm afraid to admit even to myself.
I like this game.
I like that I've captivated the imagination of this dangerous, controlled man.
That I've somehow gotten under his skin.
That I matter enough for him to build an entire elaborate scenario just to prove I don't.
A man like Giovanni Bavga doesn't play games he doesn't need to play. If he truly wanted me gone, there are more efficient ways to do it. He could have taken his money back, thrown me in a trunk, and dropped me in the middle of nowhere without a backward glance.
Or had his goons handle it. No involvement whatsoever.
But instead, he put me here.
Playing along with my double-or-nothing challenge.
And he brought his A-game.
This whole setup—the basement, the manual, Master Ski Mask here—it's all Giovanni's move in whatever twisted chess match we've found ourselves in. He's not fucking around. He's showing me exactly what I'm getting myself into if I stay.
So maybe I should bring my A-game too.
The Master is still watching me, waiting for my reaction to his little speech about Giovanni's past conquests. I let my eyes meet his through the ski mask holes.
I consider the question burning in my mind: Can I win by merely complying?
No. Competence isn't good enough for a man like Giovanni.
But I could win by excelling.
I'm not going to defy Giovanni like some bratty sub who wants punishment. I'm going to obey him. Down to the letter. Every rule, every position, every "Yes, Sir" and downcast gaze—I'll master them all. I'll become the perfect submission machine.
And each flawless compliance will be my rebellion.
Because when I've accumulated zero demerits, when I've executed every instruction perfectly, when I've proven I can play his game better than anyone before me—he'll be forced to see that I am different.
That I saw the trap and walked into it anyway. Eyes open. Spine straight. Head high.
The moment will come when he has to choose: break me or acknowledge me. And I'll be damned if I give him any excuse for the former.
"I understand now," I tell the Master, straightening my posture to textbook perfection. "Thank you for the lesson."
His eyes narrow slightly, as if he senses something has shifted but can't quite identify what.
From obedience, power.
From loyalty, safety.
From surrender... freedom.
My chains, my choice.