Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
His interest is just this side of pathological to be sexy. It dances on that razor-thin edge between intense attraction and something darker, more obsessive. The way his gaze lingers too long, cataloging my every movement—it should trigger warning signals.
It does, but those warnings tangle with something that flushes my skin and catches my breath.
Being the focus of such attention from him is dangerously alluring. He studies me like a puzzle he’s determined to solve.
This interest makes me feel both exposed and powerful—prey yet precious. It’s not normal attraction but something different, whispering of possession.
Yet I can’t deny the electricity when those green eyes narrow, watching me like I’m all that matters.
Despite the demerits, mind games, and Giovanni probably killing people—I still feel that tiny thrill of anticipation.
Because let’s be honest: driving that Lamborghini was fucking amazing. I took the world’s quickest ‘Learn-to-Drive-a-Lambo’ class and actually did it. I drove a fucking Lamborghini, and it was… orgasmic, now that I think about it. The power under my fingertips, the way it responded to the slightest touch, the looks on people’s faces as I drove past. For twelve minutes, I wasn’t homeless, jobless Emmaleen.
I was… the chick in the Lambo.
“Focus, Emmaleen. And don’t get used to any of this. One week,” I remind myself. “One fucking week and you get to blow this town as your life catapults into a new stratosphere.”
Thirteen minutes.
All these weeks of forced two-minute showers have paid off in dividends. I’ve got this whole “efficient personal hygiene” thing down to a military operation. Hair, body, face—bam, bam, bam. No time for existential crises under the spray. Save those for when you’re fully clothed.
I step into the attic bedroom wrapped in the world’s most luxurious towel, and—holy exposure, Batman. It’s a fishbowl. A lighthouse. Gorgeous. I don’t even care that anyone in town with a pair of binoculars can look in.
There’s a metal casing on the top of each window—custom black-out blinds, I guess. But right now, the blinds are up, and the entire town of Riverview could be watching me do my towel dance. Hello, citizens! Enjoy the show! Today’s performance: “Homeless Girl Pretends She Belongs Here.”
The bed is oddly a twin, which makes absolutely no sense in this palatial fish tank of a room. What the hell? It’s like putting bicycle wheels on a Ferrari—a jarring mismatch that makes me wonder if this is some kind of weird power play. The frame is gorgeous, all dark wood and intricate carvings, but the mattress itself is narrow, barely wider than a college dorm bed.
In a room with enough square footage to host a small wedding reception, the bed looks like an afterthought, or worse—a deliberate choice to remind me of my place in this mansion. Is this Giovanni’s subtle way of ensuring I don’t get too comfortable? Or maybe it’s just another test, another way to see how I’ll react without saying a word.
Eleven minutes.
The closet looks like a retail showroom that had an affair with an Apple Store. Every surface is pristine white or glass. The hanging rods are illuminated from within, casting a soft glow on... nothing. The closet is empty except for seven garment bags hanging in military precision. A rainbow of future humiliation: white, black, pink, peach, gray, red, and light green.
The shoe wall is an open grid of possibility—each cubby waiting to imprison some poor woman’s foot in torturous beauty. There’s a central island with a marble top and the drawers have those fancy no-handle fronts that you push to open.
I’m afraid to touch anything. I carefully—so carefully—lift the white garment bag from its hook. The bag itself is a flex: matte white perfection with a custom-stitched leather handle that probably required the sacrifice of a virgin calf raised on organic milk and Mozart. The zipper is industrial-grade, running the full length of the bag, and the whole thing has a weight to it that whispers “expensive” in that way only truly expensive things can.
Back in the bedroom (where at least the carpet will catch my inevitable stress sweat), I lay the garment bag on the bed and unzip it with the reverence of an archaeologist unsealing a pharaoh’s tomb.
“Let’s see what Giovanni thinks is appropriate for ‘Take Your Assistant to Crime Family Dinner’ night,” I mutter.
First up: a white cotton blouse so crisp it could cut glass. The sleeves are tucked behind with precision that suggests either military training or obsessive-compulsive disorder. Probably both, in Giovanni’s case.
“Very Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct meets Mormon missionary,” I whisper, lifting it gingerly.
Clipped to the same hanger with padded clamps—because heaven forbid fabric touches fabric—is a high-waisted pencil skirt. White. Of course it’s white. Because nothing says “I make good life choices” like wearing white to dinner with the mob.
“Perfect for highlighting bloodstains and marinara sauce,” I note, already imagining the inevitable disaster.