This open-concept space above the restaurant is all exposed brick, massive wooden beams, and polished glass.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line the far wall, letting in a flood of moonlight that makes the hardwood floors gleam like bone. The furnishings are sparse and masculine—deep charcoal couches, a raw oak coffee table, and industrial lighting fixtures that hang like steel spiders from the ceiling.
A complete chef’s kitchen shines against the far wall, pristine, each stainless-steel device buzzing softly in position. The space was costly to transform. Assembled, the sort of fashionable opulence that should feature in design publications. But it seems empty. No disorder. No signs of life. No jackets thrown over furniture, no worn footwear near the entrance.
Merely an exquisite enclosure of bricks and glass, masquerading as a residence.
I drop my bag by the door and move to the front window. From here, I can see most of River Avenue. My street. My buildings. My town. The streetlights create pools of yellow light on empty sidewalks. A lone car passes, moving slowly.
I stand there for a moment, watching. Breathing. The tension in my shoulders begins to unwind, one muscle at a time.
I’m starting to hate people.
I’m starting to hate myself for hating people.
But the girl, my mind whispers back.
Monday morning, I get to play with the girl.
I walk into the bedroom and hang the suit carrier in the closet. Tomorrow’s armor, ready for church and family.
The apartment feels different from the mansion—smaller, but it’s mine. No idiots breaking the silence with their conquests. No reminders of what I don’t want.
I slip off the Royal Oak—seventy-five grand of bad decisions if you don’t treat it right. The weight of it disappears from my wrist, the platinum catching the light as I place it on the bedside table.
The tie comes next. Italian silk, black as oil. I loosen the knot with practiced fingers, slide it from around my neck, and hang it on the hook beside the closet. Each movement precise. Controlled.
My jacket follows. I run my hand down the lapel, checking for anything out of place before adjusting it carefully on the wooden hanger. The shoulders must sit perfectly. Details matter.
I step out of my pants, crease them along the line that’s already there, and fold them over the back of a chair.
Everything in its place.
Order creates power.
Standing at the window in my shirt and boxer briefs, I stare at the lights of Riverview below. Small town, small minds. Easy to own. I work the platinum cufflinks from my wrists—my father’s, given to me when I graduated. Not because he was proud, but because appearances matter. I set them on the windowsill without looking.
My fingers move to the buttons of my shirt, working down the line of crisp white cotton. The green-eyed girl—Emmaleen—flashes through my mind. Something about her lingers there, refusing to be filed away with all the other forgettable faces I’ve encountered today.
Perhaps it’s the way she held my gaze without flinching, or that hint of defiance beneath her professional demeanor. Unexpected, in a town where most people’s spines seem to dissolve at the mere weight of my attention.
Monday morning, 8:00 a.m. First test. Will she be early or exactly on time? How she arrives will tell me everything I need to know.
She’ll need handling from the first second. Not the way Dom or Ricky would handle her—all obvious intent and clumsy moves. Something more precise. She’s cautious about working for me, but excited about the money.
The perfect contradiction to exploit.
I could start with intimidation—make her wait while I finish a call. Let her feel small in my space. Or perhaps the opposite—full attention, eyes never leaving hers until she breaks the contact first.
I unbutton the last button and pull the shirt off, hanging it with the same care as everything else. My reflection catches in the window glass—the scar at my eyebrow from when Marco pushed me into a table when I was nine. The muscle built from necessity, not vanity.
Emmaleen doesn’t understand the game she’s stepped into. Smart girl, but not smart enough. I’ve watched people fold under pressure for years. Seen what makes them crack, what makes them bend.
She’ll bend. They all do.
I don’t feel bad about it. She’ll get paid more than she’s worth. More than that bakery job ever would have given her. Fair exchange for becoming another piece on my board.
Monday, I’ll find her weakness.