“WHAT DID I DO? NO. NO. We’re not doing race mode. I can’t even merge!” Her voice rises an octave, panic threading through her words like a wire pulled too tight.
“Sistema di trazione temporaneamente disabilitato. Ricalcolo del percorso.” The navigation screen flickers between routes up to my house, recalculating with relentless precision.
“Stop recalculating, I haven’t gone anywhere!” Her frustration peaks, her voice teetering on the edge of hysteria.
“Ostacolo rilevato a distanza ravvicinata.”
She throws her hands up in exasperation. “Stop beeping at me! There are no obstacles around the car, just... reality!” Her frustration is palpable, a raw, unfiltered reaction to a situation spiraling out of her control.
“Freno di stazionamento attivato.”
I find myself smiling. Actually smiling. The kind that reaches my eyes—a rare occurrence that would alarm anyone who knows me well. Her chaos is oddly... refreshing. The Lamborghini—a machine designed for precision and control—meeting someonewho can’t be controlled through intimidation alone. It’s an unexpected twist, and I savor it.
She’s panicking now, slapping at the center console like it’s personally insulted her. Her hand hits the seat warmer button, then the radio. A thundering club track explodes through the cabin, bass vibrating the camera feed, adding another layer of chaos to the scene.
“Shut up. Everyone shut up!” She smacks the dashboard with an open palm, finally finding the mute button. Silence falls, a stark contrast to the cacophony that preceded it.
Then she does something unexpected. She leans forward, addressing the car directly. “Look, Car. I understand that you’re better than me and I don’t deserve to drive you, but this is an assignment. I need to succeed. So if you could just...” She stops, deflates. The fight drains from her posture, leaving her looking small and vulnerable. “Never mind,” she mutters.
I lean closer to the screen, rewinding the footage. I watch her say it again—those two words. “Never mind.”
But it’s what she doesn’t say that captures my attention. The resignation. The calculation. The regrouping. She doesn’t break. She adapts, even in the face of overwhelming odds.
I mute the feed. Not because I’m bored. Not because I’ve seen enough. I mute it because the audio has become a distraction from what I need to observe. The noise, the panic, the chaos—those were expected. Entertaining, even. But this silent moment is different.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg. She didn’t shatter. She stopped herself. And I don’t know why.
That uncertainty shifts her classification in my mind. From distraction to... something requiring closer study.
Not for what she says, but for what she deliberately holds back.
In that silence, I see a flicker of resilience, a spark of something unbroken.
And that, more than anything, makes her desirable.
10
Oh. My. God. I did it.I actually did it. Achievement unlocked: Operated Satan’s Sports Car without Bursting into Flames.
The engine purrs beneath me like some exotic mechanical panther. I’m basically sitting inside Giovanni Bavga’s wallet, and it smells like leather, money, and the collective dreams of middle-aged men going through divorce.
I adjust the mirrors. All of them. None of them help.
The seat is next, and it’s like trying to find a comfortable position in a NASA launch module. Too far back and I’m practically in the trunk. Too far forward and my knees are having an intimate conversation with the steering column.
My knees bang against something hard and unforgiving under the steering wheel. Jesus, how does he even fit in here? He’s like six-foot-whatever of Italian intimidation, and this car is built for hobbits with trust funds.
And suddenly I’m thinking about Giovanni. Not just thinking—picturing him. Folded into this ridiculous car like some elegant origami of rage. His long fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, those green eyes focused on the road, that jaw clenched in concentration?—
“Snap OUT of it, Emmaleen.” I physically shake my head like I’m an Etch A Sketch that needs clearing. This is your BOSS. Theman who’s actively torturing you with red stilettos and standing desks. Get it together.”
I grab my phone and hit play on “How to Drive a Lamborghini Aventador for Complete Idiots” for the seventeenth time. The chipper YouTuber with suspiciously white teeth reminds me about the paddle shifters. Right paddle, upshift. Left paddle, downshift. Don’t crash. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
I place my fingers on the right paddle shifter like I’m about to perform heart surgery. One click, and the car lurches forward with all the subtlety of a caffeine-addicted kangaroo.
“Holy—” I flinch so hard I nearly headbutt the windshield. But underneath the terror is something else. A tiny thrill. A microscopic spark ofI’m driving a Lamborghini.
My eyes dart to the passenger seat where those two black notebooks sit like judges at a talent show I didn’t sign up for. One written in elegant Italian that might as well be hieroglyphics spelling out my doom. The other in crystal-clear English, promising financial salvation.