Because here’s this man—this honestly terrifying, occasionally magnetic, morally-bankrupt man—who poured his heart out to me in notebooks while I was in the hospital. Literal me—hair greasy, face gray, gown exposing everything in the worst possible fluorescent lighting. And still, he stayed. He wrote. He gave mewords.
Me. The Word Collector.
It was a gift. And like an absolute idiot, I missed it.
So, no, this isn’t some Hallmark channel fantasy where we kiss under Christmas lights and adopt a golden retriever. This isn’t “happily ever after.” Forget that.
This is about trust.
He trusted me. Me, of all people. I’m the witness to his greatest crime. And sure, I’d bet every penny of this sixty-three grand that Rico LaRiccia wasn’t his first kill. But I’m also sure—in that dark, gut-deep way women justknowthings—that Giovanni has never left a witness like me. Not someone outside the fold. Not someone who wasn’t already his blood.
That means something.
No—Imean something. To him.
I want those moments back.
Didn't I earn it?
Apparently not, because now he wants to discard me like a cigarette stub. And here's why I can't walk away. Here’s the ugly truth: for the rest of forever, I will compare every man I meet, every maybe-he's-the-one boyfriend, every Tinder swipe, against Giovanni Bavga. And they will all, every single one of them, come up short.
So no. It’s not love.
It’s trust.
Which, God help me, might be even worse.
I force myself to look at the masked man, at his gloved hands, at the riding crop that struck with such precision. At the room designed for correction and submission. At the cabinets that undoubtedly hold instruments of pain, or pleasure, or both.
The choice hangs in the air between us, unresolved, my hand suspended in its moment of decision.
The key isn’t freedom into nothing. It’s freedom intoeverything. I don’t have to reject his offer and go back to the shelter, preserving my dignity.
I could take the pay off.
A new name. A new country. Giovanni’s money cushioning every step. A clean slate he’s practically gift-wrapping for me, all tied in silk and stamped with his signature ability to erase people from existence.
Door number one: safety, anonymity, a life where no one ever calls me by the name Emmaleen Rourke again.
Door number two: Giovanni Bavga. His Doctrine. His rules. His brand of chaos, and cruelty, and notebooks in the dark.
One life where he never touches me again.
One life where every touch belongs to him.
It’s not a choice.
It just isn't.
It never is with men like Giovanni Bavga.
5
I lean forward in my chair, watching Emmaleen's hand hover between the key and the pen. The indecision. The calculation. The sweet fucking torment of choice.
Jino plays his part well. Steady. Silent. Threatening. His breathing barely audible beneath the mask I selected—simple, black, clinical. Not the ornate bullshit amateurs wear to cosplay power. Real dominance doesn't need decoration.
Her fingers twitch. Not toward the key. Not yet. Interesting.