He exits the car with fluid precision. I fumble with—well, nothing, because there are no handles in this alien transport pod. It opens, revealing Mr. Control-freak’s glaring green eyes, so intensely focused that I feel them like a physical touch against my skin.
“Your carriage ride is over now, Miss Take. Please follow me.” His voice is low and precise, each word measured out like ingredients in a dangerous recipe. There’s no question in his tone, no possibility of refusal. It’s a command dressed up in courtesy, and we both know it.
I get out. Or, try to. The car really is low to the ground—so much so that it feels like I’m unfolding myself from an origami puzzle. I’m not even big—like five-foot-five and a hundred and twenty-five pounds wet—but extracting myself from this sleek Italian spaceship requires a level of coordination I apparently don’t possess this morning.
My legs tangle briefly with the impossibly low door frame, and I have to brace one hand against the warm metal exterior to avoid tumbling onto the concrete. While Bavga can pour his six-foot-two frame out of the driver’s side with the effortless grace of mercury sliding across glass.
How does a man his size just glide out like water?
“This way,” he says, his voice clipped and impatient. He doesn’t look back to see if I’m following. He doesn’t need to. Where else would I go?
The restaurant looms before us. I’ve never been inside before—it’s so far beyond my pay grade it might as well be on Mars.
Up close, it’s pure control rendered in architecture: straight lines, dark glass, and doors that seem to measure you before they decide whether to open. A building that knows who owns it—and who doesn’t.
Inside, Bavga’s is everything the exterior promised: dark polished wood, red leather booths, ambient lighting that flatterseveryone it touches. The kind of place where deals are made, secrets are kept, and the prices aren’t on the menu because if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.
It’s empty now, hours before dinner service. A man’s fortress, preparing for battle.
Mr. Bavga leads me to the back, past tables set with gleaming silverware and crystal. He opens a large, heavy door that looks like it could withstand a small explosion.
The office beyond is cold, perfect, hostile. No clutter. No personal touches. One desk, one chair behind it, one chair in front. One door. Two cameras in opposite corners, their red lights blinking steadily. The walls look thick. Soundproof, probably.
He gestures to the chair in front of the desk. Doesn’t speak. Pulls out his phone and types something, dismissing my existence temporarily.
I sit carefully, keeping my posture defensive, spine straight, feet planted. My hands are shaking, so I hide them in my lap, under the remnants of the Hendrickson wedding cake that are still clinging to my clothes.
Finally, he looks up. And wow, is his full stare something else. Those green eyes don’t just look at you—they dissect you, cataloging weaknesses, measuring resistance. It’s almost hypnotizing, like looking into the eyes of something that evolved to hunt things exactly your size.
“Giovanni Bavga,” he says, offering his name but not his hand.
“Emmaleen Rourke,” I reply automatically, then immediately regret giving him my full name, like I’ve just handed over a piece of myself I can never get back.
His expression doesn’t change as he places both hands flat on the desk, perfectly symmetrical, like he’s posing for a business magazine cover. “I’m offering you a job.”
Wait. What?
I blink at him, mentally rewinding the last five minutes to see if I missed something. Nope. Still covered in cake. Still unemployed. Still sitting in front of the local mob boss who apparently moonlights as a career counselor.
“A job,” I repeat, voice flat with disbelief.
“Personal assistant. Total availability. No questions.” He delivers this like he’s reading off a menu he’s already memorized.
“Total availability sounds like indentured servitude with extra steps,” I say before my survival instinct can tackle my sarcasm.
“Fifty-two thousand dollars a year.” He doesn’t even blink. “Plus benefits.”
My brain short-circuits. That’s a thousand dollars a week. That’s more than double what I was making at Sweet Dreams. That’s first and last month’s rent on an actual apartment with walls and a door that locks. That’s a security deposit and groceries that don’t come from the expired shelf at Save-A-Lot.
That’s freedom from the shelter in exactly twenty-three days.
The number bounces around my skull like a pinball machine hitting the jackpot. Fifty-two thousand. Fifty-two thousand. I can almost hear Sister Margaret’s voice: “Providence works in mysterious ways, Emmaleen.”
Yeah, and sometimes Providence wears Italian suits and drives cars that cost more than most people’s houses.
“Why?” I ask, because there has to be a catch. There’s always a catch.
“I saw what happened. Both times.” His eyes narrow slightly. “The champagne incident wasn’t your fault. Neither was the cake. I was waiting in the alley until the delivery van pulled out. I saw the whole thing.”