Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
The question hangs between us, heavy with implication. Its weight presses down on my chest, making each breath deliberate and conscious. In the stillness of this moment, I feel the war inside me beginning to quiet. Yes, I want this. I want him to control me—to take the burden of choice from my shoulders, if only for a little while. I want to stop fighting what feels like gravity, this inevitable pull toward submission that's been tugging at me since the first moment I stepped into Giovanni Bavga's office.
The resistance has been exhausting, like swimming against a relentless current that was always meant to carry me exactly where I now find myself.
But... "What about Giovanni?"
A smile flickers across Jino's face. "Giovanni and I have come to an agreement. But first, before I bring you to your King, you must bow to the Master."
He tips my chin up, forcing me to look into his eyes. There's nothing gentle in his expression now, only authority, only certainty.
"Would you like to learn how to be happy in the dungeon by bowing to me?"
Yes. God, yes.
The word ricochets through my skull like a pinball, lighting up every nerve ending as it bounces. My body responds before my brain can catch up, a full-body flush that starts at my cheeks and slides down to places I shouldn't be thinking about with Jino's hand still on my jaw.
I want his tattooed fingers sliding up my ribcage. I want his mouth on my neck, teeth grazing that spot where my pulse hammers against my skin. I want his weight pressing me into the mattress, pinning my wrists above my head while he takes his time—unbearably slow—working his way down my body. I want him to use that riding crop on me, not for punishment but for pleasure, tapping each sensitive spot until I'm writhing. I want those lips whispering degradations against my ear while he slides inside me. I want to be on my knees in front of him, looking up through my lashes as his hands tangle in my hair, guiding me toward his—
I blink. Hard. Once, twice.
What the actual hell, Emmaleen? This is how people die in mob movies.
I'm not just playing with fire; I'm practically dousing myself in gasoline and handing these men a book of matches. They wouldn't just be breaking my heart—they could literally break my neck if this goes south.
I didn't catch every word of the testosterone-fueled shouting match outside, but I heard enough. "Family." "LaRiccias." "Rico." "Witness." The math isn't complicated. I'm the living, breathing evidence of a murder that threatens to ignite a mob war. In any rational criminal enterprise, I'd already be wearing cement shoes at the bottom of the Allegheny River.
But they don't want to kill me. That's the mind-bending part of this whole situation. They should want me dead, but instead, they're... competing over who gets to control me? There's something profoundly fucked up about being relieved that your options are sexual servitude or death, and I'm choosing to focus on the "not dying" part of that equation.
This is Jino offering me a life raft disguised as handcuffs.
My chains, my choice—except it's not really a choice at all.
I take a breath, steadying myself. If I'm going to do this—and apparently I am—I need to understand what I'm signing up for.
"I think I could say yes," I say, my voice calmer than the hurricane inside me. "But I need you to explain what this actually means. What you're offering. What I'd be agreeing to." My heart thunders against my ribs like it's trying to escape, and there's a heat building low in my belly that I'm desperately trying to ignore. "I've spent my whole life fighting what I want, pretending I don't... respond... to certain things. But I need to understand it before I accept it."
Jino's hand slides from my jaw down my neck, his thumb tracing my collarbone with deliberate pressure. "You're a submissive," he says, the word landing like a diagnosis I've been waiting for. "It's not a flaw or weakness—it's your nature. Just as being dominant is mine."
His hand continues its journey, skimming over the thin fabric of my nightgown, brushing the side of my breast. I inhale sharply.
"A submissive," he continues, voice steady while his fingers create chaos, "finds fulfillment in yielding control to a trusted dominant. You crave structure, boundaries, direction. Your body responds to firm handling." His palm flattens against my stomach, pressing slightly. "A dominant, or top, provides that structure. Creates the safe space where you can surrender without fear."
His other hand slides up my back, finding the nape of my neck beneath my hair. "I've lived this lifestyle for fifteen years. I've trained women who thought they wanted gentle lovers, only to discover they craved firm hands and clear rules. I've watched them bloom under discipline, finding peace in positions and protocols."