Chapter 18 #2
"This," he says softly, "goes around your throat.
And then I'm going to attach a chain from here"—he taps the O-ring—"to the nipple clamps.
The tension will be perfect. Any movement of your head, any tilt of your neck.
.." He demonstrates with his hand, a gentle tug that makes his point.
"...and you'll feel it exactly where I want you to. "
Jesus Christ. A flood of warmth pools between my legs.
"The restraints." His gaze drops to the leather cuffs, and something flickers across his face. Almost... tender? "Soft. Satin-lined. You didn't choose the ones that bite. Interesting."
"I'm not trying to injure myself," I manage.
"No." His hand tightens in my hair again. "You're trying to survive me."
It's not a question.
Giovanni leans forward, bringing his face close to mine. Close enough that I can see the faint scar on his eyebrow, the exact shade of green in his eyes that seems to shift depending on his mood.
"I'm going to spread you out on the dais," he says, voice dropping to something almost intimate. "Wrists attached to the throne legs. Ankles to the floor bolts. You'll be open. Completely. Unable to close your legs, unable to hide a single reaction from me."
My pulse is a drumbeat in my throat.
"And then." He picks up the riding crop, the leather making a soft whisper as he runs it through his fingers. "The only implement you chose that will deliver actual pain."
He taps it lightly against my collarbone.
"I'm going to mark you, little one. And in the morning, Jino will be pleased."
I'm ready for it.
God help me, I'm ready for all of it.
Giovanni's thumb traces the line of my jaw. "Stand up."
I push myself up on shaky legs, implements still clutched against my chest like I'm some kind of BDSM sommelier presenting tonight's selection.
"Drop them."
The toys clatter to the floor, scattering around my feet.
Giovanni's eyes track the movement, then return to my face with that unreadable intensity that makes me feel simultaneously invisible and hyper-visible.
"Straddle me."
My brain short-circuits.
I move forward, awkward and hyperaware of every inch of skin, every angle of approach. My knees hit the edge of the throne on either side of his thighs, and I have to brace my hands on his shoulders to keep from toppling sideways like some kind of drunk flamingo attempting yoga.
His hands come to my hips, steadying me.
Guiding me down.
And then I feel it.
Oh.
The hard length of him pressing against me through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs. Right there. Right exactly there, where my body is already responding like I've been conditioned to crave this particular brand of torment.
I'm trying very hard not to grind down against him like some kind of feral cat in heat.
Giovanni's breath ghosts across my collarbone as he leans in, his lips finding the shell of my ear. "There's something you need to understand about the new arrangement."
His voice is barely a whisper. Intimate. Almost gentle.
Which immediately sets off every alarm bell I have left.
"You will never leave this house again."
I go rigid in his lap, my fingers digging into his shoulders. "What—"
"You are a witness." His hands tighten on my hips, holding me in place when I instinctively try to pull back. "I made a mistake. Letting Jino know the truth about Rico. About what you saw. What you represent."
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat, my wrists, behind my eyes.
"I'm telling you this because it must be your choice," Giovanni continues, still in that maddeningly calm whisper. "I won't force you into a cage you don't understand."
There's something more here.
Something underneath the words, in the spaces between them. The way his breath catches slightly. The tension in his shoulders beneath my palms.
This isn't just about witness protection, or mob protocol, or whatever fucked-up family politics govern his world.
This is something else entirely.
Giovanni leans closer, his mouth brushing the sensitive spot just below my ear.
And then he explains. "Let me be clear, little one." His voice drops even lower, rough with something that sounds almost like desperation. "You are mine. Forever. No matter what you choose right now."
I'm not breathing.
Can't breathe.
Can't process the weight of forever coming from a man who kills people who threaten what's his.
"It is not you I will kill if you say no to this arrangement."
His lips graze my pulse point.
"It's Jino."
The world tilts.
Everything I thought I understood about this situation—about the training, the protocol, the careful negotiation of boundaries—it all reshapes itself into something infinitely more dangerous.
This isn't a game.
This isn't even about control or submission or whatever psychological architecture Jino was building in that basement.
This is Giovanni Bavga telling me that my freedom—my choice—comes with a body count.
That if I say no, if I take the key, and the money, and the plane ticket to anywhere else, he will murder his own cousin. The man who just spent hours teaching me how to kneel properly. Who bathed me with unexpected gentleness. Who promised to show me how to be happy in the dungeon.
Dead.
Because of me.
My fingers are trembling against Giovanni's shoulders.
"You're..." I can barely form words. I keep them soft on purpose. "You're saying if I leave, you'll kill Jino?"
"Yes."
No hesitation. No remorse. Just flat, factual certainty.
"You’re now under my protection. From this day until your last, you will be safe because I’ll keep you that way. No matter the distance between us."
I stare at him, searching his face for any sign that this is another test, another manipulation, another layer of whatever sick game they're playing.
But Giovanni's eyes are clear. Honest in a way that makes me ache.
He means it.
Every word.
He will kill for me.
Again.
Over and over, if that's what it takes.
Because I am his.
Absolute and forever.