The insult glances off me. Labels are meaningless when survival is at stake. I've been called worse by better men.
"As long as Emmaleen is under our control, under your roof, she's not a threat," I explain, my voice calm and measured. "She's contained. Predictable."
Giovanni laughs, sharp and bitter. "You clearly don't know Emmaleen Rourke. She's about as containable as nitroglycerin."
I shrug. The motion is deliberate, calibrated to display indifference. "Minds are just... clay. They can be shaped." I move to the wall, tracing my finger along the edge of a cabinet, feeling the grain of the wood beneath my touch. "Clearly, the girl likes you. Enough that she's willing to be your sub. To play this fucked-up sex game." I look up, meeting his eyes. "She's already submissive or she wouldn't be here."
Giovanni's jaw tightens. "I did a background check. Her ex-boyfriend abused her. She ran away. It's cruel to take advantage of her state of mind. That’s what she was trying to say to me when she mentioned the background check. That I knew her weakness and…” He sighs. “And now I’m using it against her.”
“As one does,” I reply dismissively.
Giovanni sneers at me. “Since when have you turned into a ruthless asshole about women? You’re the one who was so fucking concerned about her agency.” He nods to the key on the wall. My idea. “You’re the one who said we needed to follow protocols. Now you’re telling me that manipulating the fact thatshe’s been abused is just another negotiation variable in the war on her mind?”
I wave all that bullshit away. Because this could work. "Listen," I say. "This isn't about her state of mind, but her natural tendency. She wants to submit, but in the case of the ex-boyfriend, she just attached herself to the wrong guy."
The thought takes root. I can see it in the subtle shift of Giovanni's expression. The momentary consideration before he rejects it.
"So I'm the right guy?" Giovanni scoffs, pointing to himself. His voice drips with bitter irony.
"No." The word is a verdict, clear and absolute. I don't soften it.
Giovanni's eyes narrow, confused by my certainty.
"You aren't the right man to slip this girl into a life of perpetual servitude." I straighten my posture, shoulders squaring. "ButIam."
A different tension fills the room now. Thicker. Giovanni's expression darkens with something possessive and primal.
"You want my girl?" he asks, voice dangerously quiet.
"I want to save your life. And hers," I reply.
I begin ticking off points on my fingers, each one a step in the liturgy I'm building. "One. I'm professionally trained in this lifestyle—I've studied under mentors who've perfected these arts for decades, understanding the delicate balance between pain and surrender. Two. I understand the psychological components of dominance and submission better than anyone in your circle—I can read a submissive's needs in their breathing patterns, in the subtle tension of muscle beneath skin. Three. I can create a sanctuary where she's both protected and controllable—a structured environment that will feel like salvation to her chaos-trained mind. Four. I already have her trust through the aftercare ritual that enraged you so much—those moments whenher guard dissolves and her true nature emerges, vulnerable and seeking guidance."
Giovanni's fingers twitch at his side.
"The conditions are simple," I continue. "I decide what actions warrant consequence, and which deserve gratification. You surrender that discretion to me, both in implementing discipline and dispensing pleasure. Every threshold crossed, every boundary tested—my judgment alone determines whether she faces correction or receives indulgence."
"You're out of your fucking mind," Giovanni says, incredulity climbing through his voice.
"I'm good at what I do," I counter, unwavering. "I can transform her, sculpt her into perfect service. She'll learn to crave this new life—find ecstasy in her chains. I'll ensure every breath she takes becomes a silent prayer of gratitude."
My assurance doesn't pacify him. It ignites something dark and possessive. His eyes blaze green fire.
"I don't fucking share what's mine," he growls.
"It's not sharing." I maintain a deliberate stillness. "Emmaleen can belong to you. I don't want her in that way." I could want her that way. But I’m not going to admit that here. It would undermine everything. "I just want... access."
"To what?" Giovanni snaps. "Her pussy?"
"Her mind," I correct him. Then, because truth is sometimes the most effective bait—"The pussy just comes with it."
Giovanni's face contorts. "You want to brainwash her."
I shrug. Labels again. Meaningless. "I want to create what you need, not what you deserve. The goal is to preserve the King and his subjects—you, me, Emmaleen—through my sacred intervention." I pause, then add the weights to the scale. "Were Dom and Ricky in on this Rico killing?"
Giovanni doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to. The tightening of his jaw says enough.
"Leaving her alive puts everyone in danger," I continue. "If you hand me her mind—and remove all constraints so I can make it pliable and willing—I will craft her into something transcendent. I'll strip away resistance layer by layer, rebuild her perception until submission becomes her natural state. The crop, the feather, the baton—all instruments in a symphony of transformation. And you, Giovanni..." I let the promise hang between us like incense, "...you can keep your 'friend' forever, preserved in perfect obedience."