"Of course. Why the hell else do you think I was touching her last night? Because Ilikeher?" he scoffs. "Get a fucking grip, Giovanni. I'm in the business of producing subs. This isn’t about pussy, this is about product. I've done this hundreds of times. I've caressed more thighs than I can count. I've teased thousands of nipples. I don't want your fucking girl. I just want her to be… produced properly. It's my name at risk here. Not yours."
Which explains his weird outburst about seeding the news with rumors of my temper with women. "Well… why the fuck didn't you just say so?"
He throws up his hands. "You didn't give me a fucking chance, asshole. You jumped me as I walked through the door."
12
The crash jolts me awake. My eyes fly open to chaos-acoustics—furniture smashing, bodies colliding, something glass shattering against a wall.
God, that's not just fighting. That's attempted murder with sound effects.
I sit bolt upright. The see-through nightgown Master dressed me in last night clings to my skin with a clammy intimacy that feels both violating and oddly reassuring. At least I'm not naked anymore.
Another crash. Then voices—muffled rage filtering through the ceiling in bass vibrations I feel more than hear. One voice definitely Giovanni's. The other, deeper. Master.
Then, silence. The kind of silence that follows someone getting knocked unconscious. Or worse.
What the fresh hell am I doing here?
I hug my knees to my chest, creating my own little fortress of flesh against whatever horror show is unfolding upstairs. The institutional mattress crinkles beneath me, its vinyl surface somehow both sweaty and freezing against my bare legs.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was leaving a women's shelter with dreams of financial independence. Now I'm in a basement sexdungeon while my mob boss employer cage-matches his BDSM instructor. Why am I such a disaster magnet?
But then there's last night. Master appearing like some leather-clad Florence Nightingale to bathe me after Giovanni stormed out. The gentle way his hands moved over my skin. How he whispered that Giovanni was "doing it wrong." The way his fingers lingered places they shouldn't. The small, surprising kiss.
It wasn't a fever dream. It happened.
And judging by the symphony of destruction upstairs, Giovanniknowsit happened.
My stomach twists into origami shapes. How much of this is going to land on me? Giovanni isn't exactly the "let's talk about our feelings" type. He's more the "shove you off a platform and storm out" type. And now I've somehow wedged myself between him and his dungeon employee.
Family is everything to these people. I'm nothing. A disposable toy they're fighting over like dogs with a bone.
The sudden thunder of footsteps on the stairs freezes my blood. Heavy, deliberate steps. Not sneaking. Charging.
I scramble out of bed, bare feet slapping against cold concrete as I retreat until my back hits the wall. My hands splay against the rough surface, seeking purchase, stability, anything.
The footsteps get louder. Closer.
This is not the life of a well-adjusted twenty-something woman.
The door detonates inward like someone kicked a C4 charge.
Giovanni fills the doorway, a living anatomy chart of rage. Bare-chested, furious, breathing like he's just sprinted through hell with demons on his heels. His boxer briefs cling low enough to make me question my life choices, which—let's be honest—have been questionable enough already.
But it's his eyes that pin me against the wall. Two glacial green lasers set to vaporize, scanning me with such controlled fury that I swear I can feel my skin heating under their gaze. The usual calculation is gone, replaced by something rawer, something primal.
This isn't business Giovanni. This is personal Giovanni. The kind who shoots people.
Then Master steps into view behind him, and oh—oh wow—no mask.
So that's what's been hiding under all that leather and mystery. Turns out, Satan's personal trainer is hot. Like, "why am I noticing this when I might be about to die?" hot. Split lip dripping blood. No shirt. Just miles of tattooed muscle, ink sprawling across his chest and down his arms in intricate patterns that somehow look both sacred and profane in the dim light.
And his face. Jesus. He looks like Giovanni's more dangerous brother. Same bone structure, same predatory stillness, but rougher around the edges. A Giovanni who doesn't bother with designer suits and boardroom politics.
My brain decides this is the perfect moment to helpfully replay the memory of his hands sliding soap across my skin last night. Touching places only invited guests should touch. His lips brushing mine.
The two of them standing together creates a perfect visual for my predicament: caught between identical versions of breathtaking and dangerous.