A green highway sign cuts through the spiral like a prophecy.
The spiral stops. Absolute clarity crashes through the chaos like lightning.
Twenty-three years ago, Salvatore Bavga traded his youngest son as tribute for a debt that wasn't even his.
An eight-year-old boy. Bound and bleeding in a warehouse. Payment for a sister's betrayal.
That boy dislocated his thumb. Shot a guard in the hip. Ran.
Then got beaten bloody by his father for 'ruining things'.
Luca never collected.
And I've been paying for it ever since—in Rico's cruelties, in Salvatore's contempt, in the unspoken debt that's hung over my head for two decades.
But debts work both ways.
I pull onto the shoulder and put the car in park.
My phone feels heavy in my hand as I begin putting the pieces together. begin to formulate a plan. My thumb scrolls through contacts.
Then I press send.
It's time to pay the debt.
18
I wake up alone.
Which, honestly, feels like the perfect metaphor for my life right now. Kidnapped by an Irish mob enforcer, subjected to the world's most elaborate Catholic BDSM ritual, fucked until I saw God—or at least whatever deity presides over orgasms that make you forget your own name—and then abandoned in a warehouse loft overlooking Boston Harbor.
Great. Excellent. Nihilistic life goals unlocked.
The sun streams through Lorcan's massive windows with that particular aggressive brightness that suggests it's way past a reasonable hour. I squint at the light like it's personally offended me, then immediately regret moving because?—
My god, my pussy is sore.
Not in a bad way. Not in aTyler-threw-me-down-the-stairs-and-I-need-a-hospitalway. In theI-got-thoroughly-fucked-by-a-man-who-knows-exactly-what-he's-doingway.
Memories flash through my brain like a highlight reel I didn't consent to watching—the chapel, the red votive candles, Position Prima with my forehead pressed to that oversized prayer kneeler while I recited prayers to the newly canonized Saint Lorcan.
I sit up slowly, cataloging sensations. Lorcan's t-shirt bunched around my waist. The soft sheets. The faint smell of theshampoo he used to wash my hair last night while talking to me in Gaelic like I was something precious.
The absurdity crashes over me in waves.
This is my life now.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, immediately feeling the protest from muscles I didn't know I had. My ass is still burning from those spankings. Walking feels like a reminder of exactly what happened—each step a small echo of Lorcan's cock inside me, his hand on my throat, his voice commanding me tobreathe, a stór, breathe.
I pad across his bedroom toward the stairs, catching my reflection in a full-length mirror.
Giovanni's collar still locked around my throat.
I look like the world's most confused captive—bedhead, kiss-swollen lips, faint outlines of fingertip-sized splotches blooming across my collarbone, wearing an oversized t-shirt that screams 'property of boyfriend' in all caps.
Perfect. I'm a walking thesis statement on moral relativism.
The stairs descend through Lorcan's space, and I take them slowly, one hand trailing along the industrial metal railing. The warehouse conversion is stunning in the morning sunlight—exposed brick, massive windows overlooking the Seaport waterfront, furniture that manages to look both expensive and comfortable.
