There are still jokes. He mentions how good I look doing certain lunges and demonstrating certain moves. That’s fine—it’d be strange if he didn’t make them. But he doesn’t say a word about the sauna.
What’s he thinking in that dark black box of a brain?
Maybe he’s ashamed too. Maybe he knows we crossed a line and he’s desperate to keep us on track.
But no, that can’t be right. He doesn’t give a damn about lines and being professional. All he wants is control, complete and total control.
And he has it.
The realization hits me at the end of the session as we’re finishing up.
He wants to dominate and control me, and he got what he wanted when he fired that staff kid then fucked me with his fingers. He proved he can do something utterly outrageous and still get what he wants.
That fucking bastard.
As he’s toweling sweat from his face, I stand and walk to the door. But I don’t leave. If I were smart, I’d march out of here, keep going to my room, pack up, and head home. If I were halfway smart, I’d at least get out of this room with some of my dignity intact.
I’m not very smart.
Instead, I turn on him. “I need to say something.”
His smile makes me livid. How can he grin at me like that? How dare he look at me with those eyes?
“You can’t help yourself, can you? I thought we’d get through this without talking about what happened.”
“You’re a manipulative bastard, you know that?”
His grin spreads like he’s happy I’m finally breaking the ice. “You’ve been thinking about it. Every second since I got you off, you’ve been asking yourself, how the hell did he do that? How did he make me come so hard—”
“Stop it,” I snap at him, losing my temper. “All of this is some game to you, isn’t it? But this isn’t a game for me, Fynn. This is my job. This is my future. The money you said you’d pay if things go right can change my life.” I take a few steps closer, trembling with rage. The way he so casually plays with my emotions and toys with my life is utterly infuriating, like he’s such a massive egomaniac that he can’t even see how he’s stringing me along. “You don’t get it because you were born with a golden spoon shoved up your asshole. You can’t possibly understand what it’s like growing up with nothing, with a mom that didn’t graduate high school struggling to juggle multiple jobs just to put clothes on your back for school, and a criminal prick dad that ran out because he couldn’t handle having responsibility. You have no fucking clue because you were born and raised in a place like this.”
I wave my hands at Villa Bruno. At the luxury, the opulence. The gym is packed with high-end equipment, and I rarely see anyone using it. This stuff is worth thousands, and it just sits here—because it can. Because they don’t care.
“Tell me more,” he says, face neutral now, no longer smiling.
The decision is like a tidal wave inside my stomach. It’s not an easy decision and it’s not the most comfortable, but it’s the right decision for me and what I need. This isn’t about him or what he wants—he’s as far from my decision process as possible.
No, this is about me. It’s got to be, or I’m going to let him subsume me into him completely.
“You don’t deserve to know more. I came here to work with you because I’m desperate and I need the cash. No, I came here because my mom needs the money, and I’ll be damned if I let you screw that up. Mom deserves this, and I’m not going to let your snide little jokes and psychotic controlling bullshit ruin it. I’m going to help you get better despite yourself, and when it’s over, I’m walking out with my cash, and you can go to hell.”
I turn and storm out.
My heart’s racing. I’m terrified and I’m shaking with adrenaline. I can’t believe I just said all that to him. Fynn is a Bruno, for fuck’s sake. He’s a killer, a monster, a mafia beast. He’ll cut my throat and he won’t lose a single night of sleep, and I basically just told him he’s a spoiled brat right to his face.
Oh my god. Oh my god! I’m an idiot. I’m the dumbest person in the entire world.
Sometimes my stupid mouth gets ahead of my stupid brain and, well, stupid things happen.
I stop midway down the hall and lean one hand against the wall, breathing fast and hard. I feel like I might be sick but there’s nowhere to be sick at, and I can’t afford to ruin these rugs. God, even when I’m losing my shit, I’m still thinking about how broke and poor I am, what a nightmare.