"Demerit," Master barks. "You do not call him by his first name. What do you call him?"
Right, because using his first name is clearly the most inappropriate thing happening in this basement right now. Not the fact that I'm standing here like Eve before the apple incident while a man in a ski mask plays Submission Simon Says.
I hesitate.
"Demerit. That's twenty. You read the rules before you signed the Doctrine. What do you call him?"
Twenty demerits. Only twenty? Amateur hour. I let out a breath, and with it comes the answer. "Sir, or my King, or Mr. Bavga."
"Continue then."
"Mr. Bavga would not put me in danger. The entire point of this game is to get rid of me to keep me safe. So, even if you are a killer, you're not going to kill me."
It's a twisted logic, but it works. Giovanni Bavga: too busy to kill me himself, too controlling to let someone else do it improperly. The man probably has a manual for how to dispose of bodies alphabetically.
"What do you think I will do to you?"
I blow out a frustrated breath?—
"Demerit."
"Forwhat?"
"Demerit. For theattitude, Emmaleen. You want to be here. Act like it. And that's twenty-two. It's a stupid number and you're not going to like the consequences."
Twenty-two. Is that, like, unlucky in Italy or something? Maybe in the Bavga household, they skip from twenty-one straight to twenty-three when counting. "And that's twenty-one demerits, Miss Take—no, wait, twenty-two. Shit. Now I have to punish you extra because numbles divisible by eleven belong to the devil."
There's a pause here as I, once again, envision myself being spanked by Giovanni. Or this guy, maybe. Which is kinda hot in a way.
"Would you like to know the consequences for ending the day of instruction with demerits?"
"As opposed to what? Surprise, you get a spanking?" I'm still looking at him, so I actually see his mouth turn up at the corners in a smile when this comes out.
Great. He's enjoying this. Nothing creepier than a ski-masked BDSM instructor finding me amusing. What's next, a little giggle while he selects which riding crop matches my skin tone? "The mahogany one really brings out your fear, darling."
"He warned me, you know."
I squint my eyes at him. "Warned you… about what?"
"You."
The snort comes out before I can stop it. "The Mafia Boss warned you, Mr. Spanks-a-Lot, about me? I'm the Word Collector. It's hardly something to be wary of."
Yes, beware my dangerous vocabulary. I might conjugate a verb at you or deploy an Oxford comma. Giovanni probably had to write up a full dossier: "Subject shows alarming tendency to use semicolons correctly; approach with caution."
"How wrong you are."
I wait, expecting more. But nothing more comes forth.
Seriously? That's it? Just "how wrong you are" with no follow-up? What kind of half-assed villain monologue is that? Even cartoon bad guys know you're supposed to elaborate on your cryptic statements. This is like Submission School taught by Mysterious McGee, Master of Unfinished Thoughts.
"Okay. So… what did he say?" God, listen to me. I suddenly feel like every seventh-grade girl ever when someone casually mentions that the popular boy was talking about you.What did he say about me? Does he like-like me or just like me? Next, I'll be passing notes:Check yes if you want to murder me, check no if you're just going to traumatize me psychologically. XOXO, Miss Take.
"You can ask him yourself. Tonight when he comes down to dole out consequences."
Oh perfect. A demerits discussion with Giovanni. I can already picture it: him in his perfectly tailored suit, me in my perfectly nothing, discussing my "consequences."
Which I'm sure are totally boring and proper, like writing lines or standing in the corner. Definitely not him putting me over his knee, his large hand connecting with my bare skin while he counts out each demerit in that controlled voice that somehow gets rougher with each number.