“I don’t even have an office,” she stutters, hands fluttering uselessly in the air as she gestures around my apartment. “Is this where I work? I don’t understand. This is all... very confusing.”
The urge to smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I suppress it. Smiling betrays satisfaction, and satisfaction reveals intent.
“Oh.” I feign surprise, glancing around my apartment as if seeing it through her eyes for the first time. As if I hadn’t calculated every inch of this space for maximum psychological impact. “Don’t mind all this domestic furniture. I don’t usually live here. I own that mansion on the top of the hill over there.”
I motion toward the window, watching as her gaze follows my hand. Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of the Victorian monstrosity looming over Riverview like a fortress. Another data point collected. Another lever identified.
“But I’ve decided to live here while you’re in training. There are too many women over there.” I pause, weighing precisely how much information to divulge. Too little creates paranoia. Too much creates familiarity. I need her balanced perfectly between both. “My associates bring them in every Sunday. The noise gets tiresome. The walls are thin, and the women they choose are... enthusiastic. It’s become a distraction I don’t need.”
Her expression shifts again—processing, buffering. I watch her mind work, trying to fit these new pieces into whatever narrative she’s constructed about me. Good. Let her try. The more she thinks she understands, the less she’ll question.
Confusion is a state I can exploit. People who are off-balance reach for anything stable—even if that stability is the hand of the person who pushed them.
“I’m bringing in a desk,” I continue, deliberately changing subjects before she can ask questions. Whiplash keeps her defensive systems compromised. “It should be here...” I check my watch, counting down the seconds I arranged hours ago.
On cue, a truck rumbles in the alley below. The timing is immaculate. Not luck—preparation.
I move to the window, gesturing down at the delivery truck. “Well, right now, it appears. I’ll be right back.”
6
I’m standing in a mob boss’s apartmentholding his phone like I’ve won a particularly horrifying game show prize.Congratulations, Emmaleen! You’ve unlocked the Psychological Torture Round! Your reward is crippling uncertainty and the growing suspicion that you’ve accidentally joined a cult!
What exactly is happening here? I’ve gone from bakery disaster to... what? Personal assistant to a man who owns a mansion but prefers to live above his restaurant because his associates have too much sex? A man who punishes tardiness with furniture deprivation? This is either the worst job interview or the weirdest episode ofUndercover Bossever filmed.
My brain is frantically running calculations like a malfunctioning supercomputer. Twenty-one days until homelessness. Minus one if I walk out now. Plus however many days I can tolerate... whatever this is. Divided by my rapidly diminishing self-respect. The math is not mathing.
The phone in my hand vibrates, jolting me back to this dystopian HGTV nightmare. A text message appears from someone named Lucia: “Were you at my apartment last night?Please tell me it was you and some rando didn’t break in to steal my Loubs. My red ‘So Kates’ are missing. Call me when you get this.”
“What the hell...?” I whisper, staring at the screen.
Lucia. That name rings a bell, clanging through my memory with the subtlety of a panic attack. Saturday. The bakery. Giovanni telling Marge to talk to Lucia about the ruined wedding cake.
And now... stolen shoes? Designer shoes. The kind of shoes that have their own Instagram accounts.
Did my new boss—my potential boss—my whatever-the-hell-he-is—steal a woman’s designer shoes? And if so... why?
The possibilities are lining up like contestants in a particularly disturbing reality show.
None of these options spark joy. None of these options make me feel safe in this sterile apartment with its perfect sight lines and complete lack of witnesses.
I’ve barely processed the stolen-shoes text when the door outside slams like a gunshot. I flinch, almost dropping Giovanni’s phone—which would probably earn me desk-chair privileges revoked for eternity.
Heavy boots stomp down the hall. Male voices. Great. More terrifying men to complete my Monday morning nightmare bingo card.
“Watch the fucking wall, Paulie.” The voice is rough, impatient.
“You watch it. This thing weighs a ton.” Different voice. Equally charming.
“That’s because it’s quality, unlike the shit in your apartment.”
More scraping sounds follow, like furniture being dragged by people who don’t care about security deposits. The door swings open with dramatic flair, and Giovanni backs in, guidingwhat appears to be a desk—sleek glass and metal that probably costs more than my entire life savings (which, to be fair, totals $243.87).
Two men muscle the other end through the doorway. One is built like a refrigerator with human arms, a neck tattoo creeping up from his collar like ivy on abandoned property. The other is leaner, with slicked-back hair that suggests he owns both hair gel stock and a subscription toWannabe Goodfellas Monthly.
I’m standing here clutching a phone with evidence of shoe theft while the furniture delivery from hell unfolds. Typical Monday.
“Little more to the left,” Giovanni directs, sounding irritatingly casual. “Against that wall.”