"Yeah." I swipe at my eyes again. "Classic Giovanni. Making me parade around in stolen shoes because—I don't know. Because he could. Because he wanted to see if I'd break. Because somewhere in that beautiful, fucked-up brain of his, making me suffer was the same thing as seeing if I was worth keeping."
Lorcan leans back against the wall.
His whole posture's different now.
Less interrogator, more... listener.
"He does that," Lorcan says. His accent softens the consonants, makes the words almost gentle. "Tests people in the most elaborate, theatrical ways possible. Like everythin's a performance and he's the only one with the script."
"Yes." I practically exhale the word. "Exactly that."
"It's because he doesn't trust easy things." Lorcan's watching me now with those sharp gray eyes. "If somethin' comes too simple, he assumes it's a trap. So he sets his own traps first—controlled variables where he decides the outcome."
I nod.
Because yes.
God,yes.
"He offered me money I desperately needed," I continue, "with contracts full of vague language about 'demerits' and 'corrective measures' that could've meant anything. I signed it anyway because—" I stop. Swallow hard. "Because I had twenty-three days, and no other options, and hesawme."
"He's good at that." Lorcan's voice has gone quieter. "Seein' people. Really seein' them—past the masks and the performance and the lies they tell themselves. He looks at you and knows exactly what you need and exactly what you're afraid of losin'."
"And then he uses it," I finish.
"And then he uses it," Lorcan agrees.
But he doesn't say it like an accusation.
More like... fact.
Just the way things are when you're in Giovanni Bavga's orbit.
"Everyone gravitates to him," Lorcan continues. His eyes go distant. Remembering something. "It's not just the money or the power—though Christ knows that doesn't hurt. It's theattention. The way he makes you feel like you're the only person in the room who matters. Like he's chosen you specifically, out of everyone, because you're worth his time."
My throat tightens.
"He's charismatic in this brutal, efficient way," Lorcan says. "Doesn't waste words. Doesn't perform emotion. Just... sees you. And once Giovanni Bavga decides you're interestin'? You'refucked. Because you'll do anythin' to keep that attention. To stay in his sight line."
I'm leaning forward now.
Hanging on every word.
Wanting more.
Wanting Lorcan to keep talking about Giovanni in that accent that makes every consonant sound like a caress, with those word choices that feel literary, and strange, andright.
"I understand how you fell for him," Lorcan says softly. "I really do. Because I know exactly how magnetic he is. How he makes you feel seen, and chosen, andnecessary. How he builds this world where you're the center of his universe—as long as you play by his rules."
He shifts.
His expression gentler now.
Almost sympathetic.
"The shoes were just the beginnin', weren't they?"
I nod.
