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)
I keep my hands on the wheel. My face neutral. My voice flat.
"I'm here to see Luca."
Both guards lose their smiles at the exact same time.
Synchronized shutdown.
Goon Number One steps back half a foot, shotgun still casual, still ready. "Turn it around, Bavga. Mr. LaRiccia don't take walk-ins. Especially not from Pittsburgh." He shifts the shotgun—not pointing it, just repositioning. "In about five seconds you're gonna be wastin' my time and ya know what happens to men who waste my time, Bavga?"
"Trust me," I say, ignoring his performance. "He's gonna see me today. So why don't you just open the fuckin' gates like a good little piggie, and let me the fuck in before you start wastin' my time and I need to show you what that means."
Predictably, this hits.
But it was intended to.
I want in.
And the only way to do that and not get killed, is to piss the guards off just enough to—
Goon Number One's hand shoots through the window reaching directly for the door release like he's got the same fucking Lamborghini parked in his garage at home.
The door hisses open and then his hand is around my throat.
He hauls me out of the Aventador like I weigh nothing—six-four of muscle yanking me vertical and dragging, my shoes scraping pavement as he pulls me toward the opening gates.
The steel barriers slide apart on some unseen command and over my shoulder I catch a glimpse of Goon Number Two dropping into my driver's seat, adjusting the mirrors like he's taking it for a joyride.
He better not scratch it.
The gates swallow me.
Goon Number One's grip tightens, cutting off just enough air to make the point without making me pass out.
Not yet, anyway.
I blow out a breath through my nose—controlled, measured—and let one final thought crystallize before this goes exactly where I knew it would.
Emmaleen.
Every calculated risk I'm taking in this moment—every deliberate word I chose to provoke them, every step I allowed them to drag me forward through these gates—it's all for her.
If I don't end this here, today, she'll spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder, waiting for the LaRiccias to figure out she's a living witness to the murder of Luca's heir.
That's not a life, that's a punishment she didn't earn.
And I cannot stand for it.
So this is for her.
Not for the family back in Pittsburgh.
Not for territory, or pride, or some abstract concept of honor.
For her.
Because somewhere between red shoes and an epic never-ending poem, she became the one thing I never expected to have.
Someone worth protecting at any cost.
In about thirty minutes—assuming I live that long—she'll never have to worry about the LaRiccia crime family again.
Something hard cracks against my temple.
White light.
Then nothing.
20
I stand in Lorcan's kitchen with perfect coffee in my hands and his note staring at me from across the marble counter.
Tonight, I'm going to teach you Position Tertia. It involves the altar, your wrists cuffed behind your back, and my mouth between your legs until you forget how to recite the prayer. We'll see how long you can hold stillness when I'm making you come on my tongue.
My pussy clenches.
I set the coffee down before I drop it.
The fantasy builds itself—Lorcan's gray eyes watching me arranged face-down on cold stone, wrists locked behind my back, legs spread. His mouth between my thighs while I recite prayers I can barely remember through the pressure of his tongue circling my clit, slow then fast then slow again, building me up and backing off until I'm sobbing in broken Irish I don't even speak.
Heat floods between my legs, slick and immediate.
My hand drifts down before I consciously decide to move it.
Fingers slide beneath the waistband of Lorcan's sweatpants, finding wet heat.
God. I'm soaked.
And then—
No self-touch.
Jino's voice cuts through the fantasy like a blade.
Cold. Clinical. Demerits.
My hand freezes.
I see Giovanni's face in my mind—that look. The one that says he knows exactly what I'm doing and exactly how disappointed he is. Not angry. Just... measuring. Cataloging my failure like he catalogs everything.
The Bavga Doctrine. Article VII. Hands and Touch. No self-touch. No scratching, fidgeting, or grooming without permission. Absolutely no masturbating without permission.
"Fuck."
I yank my hand out of my pants like I've been burned.
I see Giovanni's face in my mind—that look. The one that says he knows exactly what I'm doing and exactly how disappointed he is.
Two days.
That's my staying power. Two fucking days away from Giovanni's control and I'm already breaking protocol like some undisciplined brat who can't follow basic rules.
The arousal drains away, replaced by something worse.
Sadness.
I miss him.
I miss the basement, the dungeon, the rules. I miss Jino circling me with the riding crop. I miss the demerit notebook and the sick thrill of watching my point total climb, knowing consequences were coming.
I miss Giovanni appearing at the top of the stairs every evening—still in his suit, looking like money and danger—ready to clear my debt with consequences that made me scream.