Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Fuck.
This is what she does to me without even being present. Just the thought of what's waiting at home and my body responds like I'm some undisciplined animal instead of a man who's spent his entire life learning to control every goddamn impulse.
I squeeze once more through the fabric, jaw tightening as heat floods through me, then force my hand back to the steering wheel.
The Aventador's engine purrs as I accelerate through an empty stretch of highway, the speedometer climbing past ninety without effort.
Emmaleen has bloomed under Jino's guidance.
I made the right call letting him stay. At first, I thought his presence was a complication—another variable to control, another person with access to what's mine. But Jino handles the structure I can't be bothered to maintain. The discipline. The consistency. The patient repetition required to rewire someone's brain until obedience becomes instinct.
He drills her through positions until muscle memory replaces thought.
He edges her for hours, teaching her body that pleasure is dispensed, not taken.
He punishes fairly, without rage or improvisation.
And every night, she kneels for me with the results of his work written across her posture, her breath, her willingness to spread her legs the second I snap my fingers.
She plays her role perfectly now.
She must. She absolutely must.
Because her safety depends on it.
Emmaleen holds my most dangerous secret—the one that could unravel everything if the wrong person asks the right question. She saw me put a bullet in Rico LaRiccia's skull.
Rico had it coming, but that doesn't change anything.
My response to the brutal blow he delivered to Emmaleen's head was pure, unfiltered rage channeled through a single bullet.
That bullet was earned.
The only thing I regret is that I made it quick.
Would I do it again?
Absolutely.
Every single time.
But that doesn't erase the complications.
Killing Rico wasn't a business decision. It was passion disguised as protection, and passion is the fastest way to get yourself killed in this life. The moment you care about something more than survival, you hand your enemies a loaded gun and point it at your own head.
Luca LaRiccia—Rico's father, head of the most powerful crime family in New York—could destroy the Bavgas if he wanted. Three times our size. Ten times our connections. We've survived this long by staying small, staying quiet, and never giving them a reason to notice us.
I just gave them a reason.
Dom and Ricky have been working overtime to maintain the illusion that Rico's still alive. Deepfake posts from the Philippines—carefully staged AI deepfake photos of Rico on beaches, in nightclubs, with women who vaguely resemble the type he used to fuck.
They've hacked his phone, his email, his social media accounts. They've even sent texts to his father, brief and vague, claiming he's "taking time to clear his head."
It's exhausting.
Every post requires new footage, new backdrops, new details to keep the timeline consistent. Ricky's good with tech, but this isn't sustainable and we can't hire it out.
Eventually, Luca will catch on.
Eventually, the house of cards collapses.
But so far, the LaRiccia family has dropped the issue.
At least where I'm concerned.
No phone calls. No surprise visits. No enforcers showing up at the restaurant asking pointed questions about the last time anyone saw Rico alive.
Silence.
I don't trust it—silence is never neutral in this business—but I'll take it over the alternative.
Luca LaRiccia could have sent a full battalion of soldiers to Pittsburgh by now. Could have stormed into the Bavga family estate, demanded a face-to-face sit-down with Salvatore, forced him to explain in excruciating detail why Rico just coincidentally vanished without a trace after attending the party at our home.
Instead… nothing.
Maybe he believes the deepfakes.
Maybe he's distracted by other wars, other problems that matter more than a wayward son taking an extended vacation.
Maybe he's simply biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike when I'm least prepared.
I grip the steering wheel tighter as the highway curves ahead, streetlights casting orange pools across the asphalt. The Aventador handles the turn without effort, suspension adjusting automatically to keep the ride smooth.
Emmaleen is the variable I can't eliminate.
She knows too much. She's seen too much. And I can't kill her—not because I'm incapable of it, but because the thought of her death triggers something in me that resembles actual fear.
I can't lose her. Ever. There will never be a time where she will be unwelcome in my home. She's… here. Forever.
And that's the end of it. That's it. Whatever it takes to keep her with me, I will do.
So I've done the only thing that makes sense.
I've made her mine.
Completely. Irrevocably. In ways that don't leave room for escape or second-guessing.
She lives in my dungeon now. Sleeps in my bed when I allow it. Kneels at my feet during meals. Spreads her legs the moment I give the command.
And she loves it.
That's the part that still surprises me—how naturally she's adapted to captivity. How eagerly she performs her role. How wet she gets when Jino straps her to the bench, when I wrap my hand around her throat, when we deny her orgasms until she's sobbing and begging.