I turn over as well so that we’re sleeping back-to-back. It’s the end of my day one too.
Day one of… what, though? I’m not sure.
I just know that nothing will ever be the same again.
24
I wake up alone in Giovanni Bavga’s bed.
For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The sheets are too soft, the mattress too firm, the room too quiet. Then yesterday’s highlight reel starts playing in my head: the demerit notebooks, the red stilettos, the Lamborghini, the mansion, the party, the sex.
Oh god, the sex.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to process how I went from unemployed bakery assistant to sleeping with a mob boss in less than twenty-four hours. My life has become a Lifetime docudrama with an NC-17 rating.
The shower’s running in the bathroom. Giovanni must be in there, washing away whatever happened between us last night. I wish I could do the same, but some stains don’t come out no matter how hard you scrub.
How did we get from “You’re eight minutes late, you’re fired” to “Do you like me?” in the span of a single day? The bookends of my first day working for Giovanni Bavga are so wildly incongruous that I’m getting whiplash just thinking about it.
I remember his face when he asked that question. The vulnerability beneath the steel. The way he looked almost...hopeful? But that can’t be right. Men like Giovanni don’t hope; they take.
The shower shuts off. I quickly close my eyes, pretending to be asleep. I’m not ready to face him yet, not ready to acknowledge that I might actually like the man who’s trying to control every aspect of my existence.
I hear the bathroom door open, footsteps padding across the floor, drawers sliding open and closed. I crack one eye open just enough to see Giovanni, towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets still clinging to his shoulders as he pulls clothes from a dresser in the closet.
I snap my eye shut when he turns, holding my breath until I hear him go back into the bathroom. When he emerges again, he’s fully dressed in another immaculate suit.
“I know you’re awake,” he says.
Busted. “Your powers of observation are truly remarkable.”
He doesn’t respond to my sarcasm, just walks across the room and opens a set of French doors I hadn’t noticed before. Sunlight floods the space, along with the scent of flowers.
“There’s a patio,” I say unnecessarily, sitting up and pulling the sheet around me. Even from across the room, I can see it’s a postcard-perfect slice of curated nature. A low hedge bursting with white flowers forms a natural fence around the perimeter. The blooms are so densely packed they look like someone spilled whipped cream along the edges of the stone flooring. Probably some rare botanical specimen that only grows in the tears of virgins during a blue moon.
In the center sits a small wrought iron table for two, its surface gleaming in the morning light like it’s never experienced the indignity of bird droppings or pollen. Two matching chairs with plush cushions wait expectantly, as though Giovanni regularly hosts breakfast parties for the criminally elegant.
The stone beneath it all is some kind of expensive-looking slate in varying shades of gray—not your Home Depot special, but the kind that was probably hand-selected from an exclusive quarry in Italy where they only mine during specific phases of the moon.
It’s beautiful in that untouchable way that reminds you of your place in the world. People like me don’t get patios like this. We get fire escapes if we’re lucky, or a sliver of concrete behind an apartment building where the super stores broken appliances.
The whole setup is so pristine it makes my teeth hurt. Like everything else in Giovanni’s world, it’s designed to make ordinary people feel inadequate. Mission accomplished.
“Well,” I breathe, suddenly realizing that Giovanni has been studying me as I internally monologued about the patio. “That is… a lovely space.” I smile at him, showing all my teeth. Suddenly, everything about this moment feels awkward. “I… think it looks like a nice place to have a cup of coffee.”
“Right.” He gestures to the door. “I was thinking that. I’ll go get us some from the main house.”
“You don’t have a coffee maker in your pool house?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Giovanni looks momentarily confused, as if I’ve asked why he doesn’t have a personal helicopter pad. “I... like a French press, as you well know.”
“Ohhhh, that’s right,” I repeat slowly. The memory of the coffee I drank yesterday hits like a joke. Which it was, I think. “Kopi Ludwig. Made from animal poop—for discerning tastebuds only. Mmm. Yum, I can’t wait.”
“Luwak,” he says, but he’s smiling. “Kopi Luwak. And no, I don’t drink that shit. I told you.”
“No, it’s only for guests.”
He smiles. It’s kinda big, too. “What did it taste like?”