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)
“That’s not—”
“Just stop talking. I’m tired, OK? It’s been… a helluva day.” I pull the covers up higher.
He sighs, and it sounds almost genuine. “Emmaleen, I’m trying to understand—”
“No,” I cut him off, finally rolling over to face him. His green eyes are closer than I expected, startlingly bright even in the dim light. “You’re trying to control. There’s a difference.”
“Is that what you think this is?”
“I know exactly what this is,” I say, my voice dropping to something dangerous and low. “This is you gathering intel. This is you looking for pressure points. This is you figuring out exactly how much it would take to break me.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s what men like you do,” I continue, riding the wave of fury that’s been building all day. “You study. You categorize. You exploit. You’re no different from—” I catch myself just in time.
Giovanni’s eyes narrow. “From who?”
“From every other entitled asshole who thinks money buys them the right to other people’s lives.”
He’s quiet for a moment, studying me with that unnerving intensity. “You’re comparing me to someone specific.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” I snap. “You’re my boss, not my therapist.”
“I’m the man you fucked against a door an hour ago,” he says, his voice dangerously soft. “I think we’re past professional boundaries.”
The words hit like a slap. “And whose fault is that? You’re the one who made the rules. You’re the one who keeps changing them.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“And you’re overstepping,” I counter. “My past is off-limits.”
“Everything about you is a locked door,” he says. “Even when you’re naked and coming apart in my hands.”
My cheeks burn with humiliation and rage. “Fuck you.”
“You already did,” he reminds me, maddeningly calm. “Rather enthusiastically.”
I want to scream. I want to hit him. I want to kiss him until neither of us can breathe.
Instead, I do what I do best. What did he call it? I wield words like weapons.
“You’re not the only one who can play detective,” I say, once again staring at the ceiling. My voice is cool despite the fire in my chest. “Let’s review our little road trip game, shall we? Two lies and a truth—except that’s not how you played it.”
Now I turn, facing him as I tick off the points on my fingers. “You shot someone when you were eight. You helped bury a body. You were kidnapped when you were eight.” I turn my head to look at him. “Funny how those bookend statements both involve you being eight years old.”
Giovanni says nothing. He doesn’t even breathe.
“See, at first I thought the kidnapping was the lie,” I continue, watching his expression carefully. “Because who kidnaps an eight-year-old and lives to tell about it when that child grows up to be you? But then I realized—you weren’t playing by the rules. You gave me two truths and a lie. Two truths. One lie. Only you did it all inside out. All… twisted and cloaked.”
His silence is confirmation enough.
“So I’m thinking—maybe you did bury a dog named Enzo. That part seemed genuine enough. But there were others, weren’t there?” I prop myself up on one elbow, feeling reckless and unstoppable. “And that kidnapping story—that’s the key to everything. Someone took you when you were eight, and you shot them. You shot someone when you were just a child.”
I’m walking through a minefield blindfolded, but I can’t stop.
“Someone kidnapped you and turned you into... this—”
The shift happens so fast I barely register it. One moment I’m looking at him, the next he’s looming over me, one hand planted on either side of my head, his face inches from mine. His eyes are cold green fire, his expression pure malice.
I should be terrified. I should be scrambling away. Instead, I feel a strange calm settle over me.
“How does it feel?” I whisper, not breaking eye contact. “To have someone you barely know see your secrets?”
Giovanni’s breathing is controlled, but I can feel the tension radiating from him like heat from asphalt in August.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, each word as precise as a blade.
“Don’t I?” I challenge. “You went digging through my life without permission. You think I can’t do the same to yours? The difference is I didn’t need Google. I just needed to listen.”
“You think you’re so clever,” he says, voice dangerously soft. “You think you’ve figured me out based on a car game.”
“No,” I reply. “I think I’ve barely scratched the surface. But I hit something real, didn’t I? That’s why you’re hovering over me like I’m a threat instead of a homeless girl in thrift-store clothes.”
Surprise flickers across his face. Then sadness. “You’re homeless…”
I don’t give him anything. Instead, I press harder. “What happened to you when you were eight? Who took you? And what did they do that was so terrible you had to shoot them to get away?”