I think about the sounds she makes when she comes—that hitched gasp followed by a broken moan, like pleasure is something she has to apologize for.
I think about the look on her face when she handed Jino the key instead of taking it. The moment she signed the Doctrine. The moment she chose me.
My cock twitches. Finally. A spark of something.
But then my brain supplies the rest of the image—Emmaleen in Lorcan's trunk, curled up in the dark, probably terrified, probably wondering why I'm not coming for her.
The spark dies.
My hand drops away.
I brace both palms against the tile wall and let my head fall forward until my forehead presses against the cool marble.
I feel empty.
Like someone reached inside my chest and scooped out everything vital, leaving just the shell. The expensive body. The tailored exterior. The monster everyone expects.
But the engine that drives it all is gone.
Because that engine isn't the monster anymore.
It's Emmaleen.
After I shower and dress, I go downstairs. My hair's still damp at the neck. Shirt pressed, tie knotted. The suit drapes my frame the way it always does. Custom-cut. Italian. Perfect.
I look exactly like Giovanni Bavga is supposed to look. The performance is flawless.
The actor playing a role has left the fucking building.
Jino's in the living room when I round the corner. Sweaty. Shirtless. Muscles carved into definition from two straight hours on the heavy bag. His chest rises and falls in controlled rhythm—not winded, just operational. Running on fumes and fury.
He's pacing.
I pause at the threshold to the living room, one hand still grazing the doorframe. Not quite entering, not quite retreating.
Just... stuck.
Jino stops pacing the second he sees me. The sudden stillness is almost worse than the movement. The scrutiny is uncomfortable in a way I can't quite name. Not threatening. Not accusing. Just... seeing.
"Do you know what happens to them?" Jino's voice is low, barely above a murmur, but it carries across the space between us just fine. "The girls you break and throw away?"
The words hang in the air between us, demanding an answer I don't have and wouldn't give, even if I did.
Never followed up. Never checked in. Never gave a single fuck what happened after they walked out my door with their payout. They stopped being my problem the second they stopped being mine.
So I just stand there, silent.
"Nothing," he says. Flat. Clinical. "You don't know because you never fucking asked."
True.
Also irrelevant.
I open my mouth to say exactly that, but the look on Jino's face stops me cold.
I cross the threshold and move to the leather chair by the window—the one that faces away from the conversation I don't want to have—and drop into it with more weight than the motion requires.
Jino doesn't follow me. "Day one," he starts. Voice still low and clinical.
