Because if I accept this offer, I’ll have yet another one around my neck. I’ll lose a few—the homeless situation. The desperation.
But nothing is free. Nothing has ever been free.
“No,” I say, meeting his intense glare. “I’ll take good advice when I can get it.”
He wants to smile, I can tell. But he doesn’t. It’s almost pathological the way he controls his expression, like he’s carefully measured every twitch of his facial muscles and decided which ones are allowed to move. I wonder how much effort it takes to maintain that level of restraint, to police your own face so rigorously that even the most natural human response becomes something to be suppressed.
It’s unnerving, watching someone with that much self-control—someone who treats emotion like an intruder instead of an experience.
“Good for you. Here’s how it’s different. You’re desperate, I’m not. You reek of bad luck. I don’t believe in luck; opportunities are mine to make. You’ve got a chip on your shoulder. I’ve got responsibility on mine. The world hates you and you hate it back. I’m sitting on top of it. That’s how it’s different. I’m not self-righteous, I’m self-made.” He leans back in his chair again, satisfied with his little speech.
I let out a breath, a little deflated. Because he’s right. Everything he said is true.
“I’m sad,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “What?”
“That’s what you’re thinking. I’m sad. Like... pathetic.”
For a moment, he goes silent. His eyes searching mine.
It makes me super uncomfortable, so I sigh and look away. “I want the job.”
“Good. Because in my head, you already have it.”
I don’t know what that means. Is it a threat? A promise? Something else entirely?
I have no clue.
“Be here Monday morning at 8:00 a.m.”
He doesn’t ask if that works for me. Of course he doesn’t. My time is now his time. My availability is now his availability.
“Don’t be late,” he adds, already looking back at his phone, dismissing me.
My chains, my choice.
3
I devote my Saturday afternoonto digital conferences with my father and siblings regarding Pittsburgh operations. Numerous complications have surfaced recently, with tensions mounting over connections to other “organizations” in Philadelphia and Newark, and, predictably, the LaRiccia Family out of New York.
Nothing I care to contemplate now that evening has arrived, so I dismiss work matters and drive to the Victorian estate our building firm spent twelve months restoring before my relocation.
A peace offering from my father for dispatching me to this godforsaken backwater. I wouldn’t claim I despise it—that wouldn’t be accurate. But it certainly doesn’t align with my vision for this stage of my life.
When I thrust the front door open and enter the foyer, cold, polished marble meets my feet. The chandelier captures the evening light, scattering fractured diamonds across the space. The Monet adorning the west wall exceeds the value of most mansions. The space stands perfect. Immaculate. Vacant.
Home?
The term rings hollow. This estate serves as a declaration, not a refuge. In Pittsburgh, the family estate buzzes with noise. Vitality. Here, silence carries weight.
I remove my jacket, fold it over my arm. My footsteps reverberate as I traverse the extended hallway toward the kitchen. The sound trails me like an unwelcome shadow.
The kitchen shines beneath embedded lights—all gleaming metal and stone. Top-tier everything. The massive Viking range remains untouched. The bespoke fridge purrs softly, the single appliance earning its place.
I pull it open, the seal breaking with a gentle suction noise. I reach beyond the unused meal containers Lucia organized and extract a beer from the rear. One beer. Each evening. My sole custom.
The top twists off with a pleasing fizz. I take a deep swallow, sensing the chill descend my throat. For an instant, I nearly unwind.