The Monster.
The name glows on the screen like an accusation.
Right. So. Here's the thing about timin'—there's operational timin', which is what you plan for, the choreography of breakin' and enterin' and asset extraction.
Then there's philosophical timin', which is that Aristotelian concept about the right moment for action bein' determined by context and consequence rather than chronology.
And then there'sGiovannitimin', which is when the universe decides to take a perfectly manageable clusterfuck and light it on fire just to see how you handle the flames.
I silence the ringer.
Then I silence Giovanni's number entirely.
Father Patrick's voice materializes immediately in my head:Lorcan, mah boy, yacan't avoid yer problems by ignorin' them.
Can't I though, Father? Because ignorin' this particular problem for approximately the next eight to ten hours while Iwork out what the actual fuck I'm doin' seems like the definition of operational prudence rather than cowardice.
This woman is a problem.
Averybig problem.
And I need to think this whole thing through very carefully.
Now is not the time for mistakes.
I stand up from the couch—ostensibly to pace, but really to adjust my cock in my jeans because it's nothardexactly, but it was definitely headin' in that direction and I'm not havin' that conversation with myself right now.
There's a sex slave sittin' on my couch with perky tits and she's givin' offhow-can-I-please-you-sirenergy like it's her default factory settin', so yeah, my body's reactin' like any functional male mammal's would.
It's biology. Pavlov. Dopamine receptors respond to visual stimuli regardless of moral context.
I'm not goin' to overthink it.
Except—Christ, here we go—here's the philosophical rabbit hole I'm tumblin' down at nine-twenty-fuckin'-eight on a Sunday night while holdin' a naked woman hostage in a cabin.
Dominance is a feature, not a bug.
Men are made to dominate women. Full stop. That's not misogyny, that's evolutionary biology wrapped in ten thousand years of social organization. The capacity for dominance—theimpulsetoward it—exists in every man with a properly functionin' amygdala and enough testosterone to grow facial hair. Alpha behavior isn't pathological. It's the natural state for any man worth a shit.
I'm not apologizin' for masterin' the art of control.
Not in business negotiations with Russian mob captains who respect strength and despise weakness. Not in physical confrontations where dominance means survival. And certainly not in sexual encounters with women who—let's be honest—arebiologically wired to respond to confident authority the same way men are wired to provide it.
The difference—thecriticaldifference that separates civilization from barbarism—ischoice.
I give women the option to walk away. Always have. Always will.
Giovanni, apparently, prefers the collar-and-dungeon approach.
Which brings me back to the problem at hand.
"Emmaleen."
She doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch. Just sits there with her chin tilted up and her hands resting on her thighs like she's waitin' for me to tell her what shape the air should take when she breathes it.
"That's a nice Irish name. I'm Lorcan, also Irish. Ya have family in Ireland?"
Because here's an idea—maybe I could send her to Ireland. County Clare, maybe. Or Galway. Somewhere with decent pubs and people who mind their own business. Get her away from Giovanni's Gothic mansion of sexual dysfunction, away from the LaRiccia mob family lookin' for revenge against whoever killed their heir, away from?—
