{GIOVANNI’S POV}**The fire crackles, low and steady, casting a warm flicker of light against the stone walls. The scent of burning wood lingers in the air, mixing with the sharper bite of whiskey. Outside, the wind howls across the Irish countryside, carrying the damp cold with it.I don’t turn when the door opens. I don’t have to. I am the boss of this place, the owner of the O'Keeffe Manor.The air shifts. A presence. Familiar. Unexpected."Ingrid."I breathe her name before I can stop myself.Footsteps come in, it's careful but quick. My eyes track the movement in the reflection of the whiskey glass. And there I see a small, stiff figure, wrapped in a coat quite too thin for this weather. Her shoulders are squared, her posture is rigid. She’s holding herself together by sheer force of will.I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my damp curls. She's caught me.She shouldn’t be here. Why is she here in fact? Who led her here? Who brought her here?She shouldn't be in this house
141.{GIOVANNI’S POV}**She stops. But she doesn’t turn.Her shoulders are stiff, her breath shallow. I see the way she grips the edge of her sleeve with her fingers pressing hard into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping her steady.I take a step forward. Not much. Just enough.She doesn’t move.I exhale slowly. "What are you actually doing here, Ingrid?"There's a beat of silence. Then she turns, just slightly, not answering my question still.Well, fine. Fine, yes my name isn't the same anymore. John O’Keefe. It isn't really the name I've known myself to be.This new name, unlike ‘Giovanni D’Avi’ rolls off everyone's tongues too easily now, as if I was born into it, as if it was stitched into my skin rather than forced upon me. The Irish don’t ask questions. They don’t care about what I was before; only what I am now and what I could be for them. And right now, I’m standing in my own goddamn Manor, looking at Ingrid, the one person who shouldn’t be here.She’s too small fo
{INGRID’S POV} * * The room they’ve given me is neither lavish nor meager, it's just enough to make me wonder if it was given to me knowingly. The room is not among the soldiers room, not among the servants room. Just a personal space made into a room for Sir John O'Keeffe’s Personal Assistant. The walls are bare except for the deep wood grain of the paneling, the heavy beams above that press shadows into the corners. A desk, a lamp, a bed with stiff sheets are all available. It smells of old books and faint traces of gun oil; perhaps remnants of whoever stayed here before me. I sit at the edge of the bed, pressing my palms against my thighs, trying to anchor myself. It shouldn’t feel like this. I came here for a reason. For one reason. But the weight of the house is different now. Before, it was foreign, a fortress I barely understood. Now, it breathes, it listens, it watches. And I can feel him in its bones. Giovanni. John O’Keefe. Whoever he is now. I exhale slo
{INGRID'S POV}**I blink my eyes immediately the word ‘Yes’, giving away my entranced state, roll out my tongue so easily. I was wrong. I shouldn't have concurred. I'm not here to satisfy his urge for pleasure.So, I throw the main question right at him. “My father, where is he?”I study him carefully, watching every flicker of his expression. I won't miss a thing as looks can sure tell. And Mr. Giovanni has always been hard to read, but I should know him well enough by now, right?Like now; the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his fingers still against the rim of his glass, the tension just barely visible in his jaw… I know he’s thinking of my question. He's Calculating. He's deciding how much to give me, how much to deny. Or, so I think.Then, finally, he speaks. “Your father?” His voice sounds a bit too even. “I don’t know who your father is.”A cold, slow rage unfurls in my chest. Really?He didn't really have to lie right now. I was prepared to hear the truth of what he'
{GIOVANNI’S POV}**She dares speak of Edmondo and not finish the statement. So easily, like she’s throwing it away. Like it means nothing.Then she turns. Walks out. No hesitation, no pause. Not a single glance back.The door swings shut behind her with a dull finality. I stay standing but figured I should take a seat again, and I do. I stare at the empty space she left behind, my hands braced against my knees. If I look at my hands, I’ll see the tension in my fingers; in the way they press too hard, in the way my knuckles stand out white against my skin.I exhale slowly. It should feel like relief. It should feel like control, like everything is in its rightful place and going the way it should, the way Edmondo wanted it. Sadly, it doesn’t.I push myself up, buckle my belt, and straighten my jacket. Automatic movements. Fix the cuffs, check the watch, smooth the creases. Routine.Routine is good. Routine keeps things in place.I tell myself I won. That I got what I wanted. That he
{GIOVANNI'S POV}**"Take the wheel."There, I surprise her. She barely steps into the car before I say it. Before the door even shuts behind her. Ingrid looks at me, unreadable, then at the wheel. "But, you have a driver.""Don’t need him." I lean against the door, watching her. "You know how to drive, don’t you?"Her fingers brush the steering wheel as if she’s testing its texture. "Yes.""Then drive."No hesitation. She adjusts the seat, buckles in, and starts the car with the kind of focus someone has when they’re transporting a bus full of school kids. Perfect posture, both hands on the wheel. No wasted movement. How? How did she know that?Elise slides in beside me in the back seat, shutting the door with just a little more force than necessary. "How responsible," she murmurs, amused. "You must drive your boyfriend around often there in Italy.""I don’t have one." Ingrid's voice is flat, and it's cool.Elise hums, tilting her head. "Then you must have a lot of experience drivi
{INGRID'S POV}**Sitting in this car, driving these crazy old false lovebirds, is a dang smelly drag. If suffocation had a scent, it would be this; the perfume, expensive cologne, and the thick stink of unresolved drama. I swear, I’ll be sick any moment now. Still, I have no choice but to put up with them.Mr. Giovanni, no, JOHN, has labeled me his professional errand girl. Pfft.Learning to drive was quite easy. When you have to do it to survive, when a whip cracks against your back for every mistake, you learn quick. Mr. Paulo made sure of that. I was thirteen when I started driving his truck, a dang truck. And I can still feel the leather burning into my skin from the night I crashed it into a street pole. He whipped me until I blacked out. I woke up on a Friday morning, with my body shaking, my stomach empty, and my eyes swollen shut.That was the last time.After that, I never crashed again.And now? Now I waste these skills driving around these…..Wait, why am I pissed? Why d
{INGRID'S POV}**“.....You could be useful if you have a taste for diamonds.”I scoff. “I do not have my tongue made for engagement rings at such a young age, Ma'am.”Giovanni doesn’t react. He has chosen suddenly not to react. But he gives an order. “You'd get down from the car, Ingrid.”Pfft!I grab my sling purse and step out. The ring store’s sign glows warm in the dimming evening, a respectable little place tucked between high end boutiques. Nothing about it screams it's related to an underground club. But that’s the point I guess.I push through the doors after they do. Inside, glass cases glint under soft lighting, rings and necklaces arranged in perfect, pristine rows. The woman behind the counter barely spares me a glance. She definitely knows why I’m here. To follow the rich ones around like a dog.The couples are lost, picking rich rings. Pathetic. No, I'm just jealous, and it's annoying that I am. I need to get them out of my view.I move past the displays and through
{BONUS × FINAL CHAPTER} * * The first time I hear the fridge open, I ignore it. The second time, I hear the unmistakable clatter of a spoon against a plate. I ignore it.. again. I roll over, reaching for Carina and as I suspected, her side of the bed is empty. It's warm but empty. The third time I hear noise, I sit up, groggy and blinking against the dim glow of the kitchen light spilling into our bedroom. “Carina?” With that follows an funny, guilty silence. Then, a crunch sound. I throw the covers off and shuffle to the kitchen, where I find my very pregnant wife sitting on the floor in one of my old shirts, surrounded by an assortment of food. A half empty tub of ice cream. A jar of pickles. A box of cereal. A slice of pizza on a napkin. And, God help me, a jar of peanut butter with a spoon sticking out of it. She looks up at me with those big brown ey
{EDMONDO'S POV}**Tomorrow comes fast. And it's morning again.The morning spills through the massive windows, drenching the room in soft gold. Outside, Vegas hums with life; cars weaving through the Strip, neon signs still flickering even in daylight, the distant sound of laughter and slot machines. But in here, in this bed, it's quiet. It's just us.Carina Morelli is curled beside me, wrapped in the sheets. Her bare shoulder is exposed and her hair is a dark tangle on the pillow. I reach out, brushing a strand away from her face. She stirs. Her lips part slightly and I pause, watching her. Before, love was brutal. It was a battle. But this… this is something else entirely.Her eyes flutter open, it's hazy with sleep."You're staring again," she murmurs, voice thick with drowsiness.I smirk, running a thumb over her cheek. "You're in my bed. What else am I supposed to do?"She shifts. She stretches her arms above her head, the sheet slipping lower. My gaze follows and she knows it
{EDMONDO'S POV}**I am wide awake……and the world is too bright.Or maybe it’s just this city: Las Vegas, with its neon lights and chaotic energy, its crowds of dreamers and gamblers. The world is too loud, too open, too free. I used to think freedom came with power, with control, with a gun in my hand and a city at my feet. But here, in a five bedroom condo that is too small compared to my estate back at Trento but too big for just the two of us, freedom tastes different.It tastes like her.Cara moves around the kitchen barefoot, wearing nothing but my shirt. The sleeves are too long, the hem brushing her thighs, and she looks like she belongs in a life I never imagined for myself. Her hair has all grown out, the soft waves are now framing her face. I remember when I forced her into dying it black, then she cut it short. She looked as untouchable as she tried to be. Now, she looks… happy.Happier than I have ever seen her. The woman who once lived in black, whose eyes carried
{INGRID'S POV}**The air in Italy is different when we arrive. It’s thick, suffocating, and all pressing down on me from all sides. From the moment we land and got into the car, I feel it in my bones.. like something is wrong.I step out of the car. The gravel crunches beneath my feet. My breath catches at the sight before me.Something is indeed wrong. Not because of the silence, not because of the way the sky hangs low and gray over Trento, Northern Italy, but because of them. Everywhere; black.I see a sea of black. Men and women standing in eerie silence with their heads bowed and their faces unreadable. The only sounds are the occasional rustle of fabric, a sniffle, the sharp bite of the wind against my skin. And then I see another; six men standing apart from the rest, wearing black suits but with blood-red hood capes.Blood-red. Is that a deliberate choice? Or is it a symbol?I swallow hard, glancing sideways at Mr. Giovanni, but his expression is unreadable. His gaze sweeps
{GIOVANNI'S POV}**The jet hums with a steady vibration, a soft, luxurious purr beneath us as we soar above the clouds. The private cabin is dimly lit, a golden glow casting soft shadows along the leather seats. Outside, the world is a stretch of endless dark, pinpricked with distant city lights below.I sit comfortably, my legs stretched out as a glass of whiskey rests in my palm. Across from me, Ingrid is curled up in her seat, het legs tucked beneath her. She's scrolling through something on the new phone I got her. She looks up, catching me watching her and arches an eyebrow. “You’re staring,” she murmurs.I take a slow sip of my drink. “Admiring, bambina. That's the word.”She huffs but doesn’t look away. “That’s new, uncle.”“Is it?” I smirk, tilting my head. “I seem to recall a certain young little lady throwing herself into my arms just hours ago. Was that not you?”She rolls her eyes but shifts slightly, uncoiling her legs. “You act like you didn’t force me onto this plane
{INGRID'S POV}**The swollen head of Mr. Giovanni's cock pushes just inside me, making me gasp and grab his shoulders. I can't tear my eyes away from the sight of his thick, veiny manhood held tight in his strong hand as it plays over my cute pink flesh.All the ways I imagined I’d give myself to man maybe in marriage or love relationships, it was never like this. Never like meeting Mr. Giovanni, losing my virginity while doing this with him, and doing it again.Actually, there was only ever one way I imagined loving a man for life. In a normal, average style, falling in love with a guy my age when I'm at least twenty one, kissing him, dating him, loving him and then we get into a relationship. The only way I believed my mother would want me to be happy.But with Mr. Giovanni, on his study desk, in Ireland not even Italy, in the light day evening of the day? This is better actually.This is sexier. Officially, I’ll lose myself to him even if not in the proper way. Even if he's actua
{GIOVANNI'S POV} * * Love her? Now, that's a funny one. Men like me don't fall in love so easily. But it is strange that I so much have this overflow of urge to control this little one. “Believe whatever you want.” I press my mouth over hers in a searing kiss, and this time, she doesn’t have time to pull away. She melts against me, and as I thrust my tongue into her mouth, her lips part for me. I feel her sharp inhale that pushes her little swollen breasts against my chest. I break the kiss and glare down at her. “Just in case you were thinking something foolish, I’ll make this clear now. I don't fall in love. Maybe obsessed with you but I'm not sure. What I'm sure of is that there are too many out there. I don’t want to see you around other men, not even someone you knew before me. Or I won’t be responsible for what I do to you and him.” She arches her eyebrow, her expression challenging me. As always. But I'm growing to hate her feistiness. “Oh, really?” But I will
{GIOVANNI'S POV}**I watch her from the doorway, unseen.Ingrid stands in front of the mirror, holding the dress against her frame, tilting her head as if trying to decide whether it suits her. The fabric spills over her arms like liquid, deep green, rich, the kind that makes her look older than she is. The gift had been deliberate. A test, maybe. Or just another way to remind her of who decides what she wears, where she goes, what she becomes.She turns slightly, checking the side of the dress, her expression unreadable. And yet, I know exactly what’s going through her mind. She wants to refuse it. Reject it on instinct because it’s too childish. But she doesn’t. Because, in some ways, she already understands that acceptance is easier. And Safer.I lean against the doorframe, waiting. She runs a hand down the silk one last time before exhaling sharply, setting the dress aside, and walking toward the door. I step away just before she opens it, making it seem like I just happened
{GIOVANNI'S POV}**I make sure the room is dimly lit so my little girl can be comfortable. The heavy curtains are drawn against the early evening sun. I sit across from my bambi, a bowl of fruit in my hand. My fingers peel a piece of orange with slow precision. She watches me with her expression unreadable, and I see the tension in her shoulders; the way her fingers tighten around the fabric of her big shirt."Eat," I say, holding out a slice. "I want you to be healthy for me. Soon, I will begin hand-working those tiny tits, I want them bigger."She rolls her eyes but takes the fruit from my fingers. Her lips brush against the tips in a way that is entirely too deliberate. I ignore it. For now I always ignore her petty advances.Silence stretches between us. I pick up another piece, twirl it between my fingers before offering it to her. She leans forward, her gaze locked onto mine. The game she plays is subtle, but I’ve always been good at seeing through people. Always."You want