This is what she does to me without even being present. Just the thought of what's waiting at home and my body responds like I'm some undisciplined animal instead of a man who's spent his entire life learning to control every goddamn impulse.
I squeeze once more through the fabric, jaw tightening as heat floods through me, then force my hand back to the steering wheel.
The Aventador's engine purrs as I accelerate through an empty stretch of highway, the speedometer climbing past ninety without effort.
Emmaleen has bloomed under Jino's guidance.
I made the right call letting him stay. At first, I thought his presence was a complication—another variable to control, another person with access to what's mine. But Jino handles the structure I can't be bothered to maintain. The discipline. The consistency. The patient repetition required to rewire someone's brain until obedience becomes instinct.
He drills her through positions until muscle memory replaces thought.
He edges her for hours, teaching her body that pleasure is dispensed, not taken.
He punishes fairly, without rage or improvisation.
And every night, she kneels for me with the results of his work written across her posture, her breath, her willingness to spread her legs the second I snap my fingers.
She plays her role perfectly now.
She must. She absolutelymust.
Because her safety depends on it.
Emmaleen holds my most dangerous secret—the one that could unravel everything if the wrong person asks the right question. She saw me put a bullet in Rico LaRiccia's skull.
Rico had it coming, but that doesn't change anything.
My response to the brutal blow he delivered to Emmaleen's head was pure, unfiltered rage channeled through a single bullet.
That bullet was earned.
The only thing I regret is that I made it quick.
Would I do it again?
Absolutely.
Every single time.
But that doesn't erase the complications.
Killing Rico wasn't a business decision. It was passion disguised as protection, and passion is the fastest way to get yourself killed in this life. The moment you care about something more than survival, you hand your enemies a loaded gun and point it at your own head.
Luca LaRiccia—Rico's father, head of the most powerful crime family in New York—could destroy the Bavgas if he wanted. Three times our size. Ten times our connections. We've survived this long by staying small, staying quiet, and never giving them a reason to notice us.
I just gave them a reason.
Dom and Ricky have been working overtime to maintain the illusion that Rico's still alive. Deepfake posts from the Philippines—carefully staged AI deepfake photos of Rico on beaches, in nightclubs, with women who vaguely resemble the type he used to fuck.
They've hacked his phone, his email, his social media accounts. They've even sent texts to his father, brief and vague, claiming he's "taking time to clear his head."
It's exhausting.
Every post requires new footage, new backdrops, new details to keep the timeline consistent. Ricky's good with tech, but this isn't sustainable and we can't hire it out.
Eventually, Luca will catch on.
Eventually, the house of cards collapses.
