But so far, the LaRiccia family has dropped the issue.
At least where I'm concerned.
No phone calls. No surprise visits. No enforcers showing up at the restaurant asking pointed questions about the last time anyone saw Rico alive.
Silence.
I don't trust it—silence is never neutral in this business—but I'll take it over the alternative.
Luca LaRiccia could have sent a full battalion of soldiers to Pittsburgh by now. Could have stormed into the Bavga family estate, demanded a face-to-face sit-down with Salvatore, forced him to explain in excruciating detail why Rico justcoincidentallyvanished without a trace after attending the party at our home.
Instead… nothing.
Maybe he believes the deepfakes.
Maybe he's distracted by other wars, other problems that matter more than a wayward son taking an extended vacation.
Maybe he's simply biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike when I'm least prepared.
I grip the steering wheel tighter as the highway curves ahead, streetlights casting orange pools across the asphalt. The Aventador handles the turn without effort, suspension adjusting automatically to keep the ride smooth.
Emmaleen is the variable I can't eliminate.
She knows too much. She's seen too much. And I can't kill her—not because I'm incapable of it, but because the thought of her death triggers something in me that resembles actual fear.
I can't lose her. Ever. There will never be a time where she will be unwelcome in my home. She's…here. Forever.
And that's the end of it. That's it. Whatever it takes to keep her with me, I will do.
So I've done the only thing that makes sense.
I've made her mine.
Completely. Irrevocably. In ways that don't leave room for escape or second-guessing.
She lives in my dungeon now. Sleeps in my bed when I allow it. Kneels at my feet during meals. Spreads her legs the moment I give the command.
And shelovesit.
That's the part that still surprises me—how naturally she's adapted to captivity. How eagerly she performs her role. How wet she gets when Jino straps her to the bench, when I wrap my hand around her throat, when we deny her orgasms until she's sobbing and begging.
She's not pretending.
This isn't Stockholm syndrome cosplaying as devotion.
She genuinely wants this. Needs it. Craves the structure, and the discipline, and the certainty that comes from having every decision stripped away.
And as long as shestaysperfect—staysobedient, stayssilent, stayshiddenin my house where no one can ask her questions—she's safe.
Not because I'll hurt her. I'mnevergoing to hurt her. Why would I hurt her? Even the monster inside me has given in on this point. It hides when she's around. The evil thing inside me shudders at the longing I have for this woman.
Not that I trust myself to handle it all alone, because I don't.
The monster hides from Jino too. It knows he's watching. It understands the rules. It's not fully controlled, but it's weakening.
Day by day, week by week, it shrinks inside me.
The Aventador's headlights cut through the darkness as I accelerate toward Riverview, toward the mansion on the hill, toward the woman waiting for me in the dungeon.
