Nine minutes left.
No problem. I’ve got this. I’ll just transform into Giovanni’s White Vision Barbie and pretend I don’t have a brain, personality, or dignity left to surrender.
The perfect crime family accessory, coming right up.
I slip into the clothes with mechanical precision, each item feeling like another layer of armor rather than fabric. The starched-cotton blouse is buttoned up to the exact modest height I know Giovanni expects—not too high to seem prudish, not too low to seem available. The skirt hugs my waist with an expensive grip that feels vaguely like handcuffs.
I fasten the delicate gold chain around my neck, its weight almost imperceptible but somehow still restrictive and the diamond studs slide into my earlobes with a cold precision that matches the clinical nature of this entire ensemble.
Unwrapping my hair from the towel, I release a cascade of damp waves that immediately threaten to destroy his vision of polished perfection. I locate the wall-mounted hands-free hairdryer, put it on high, and let the warm air blast downward as I tilt my head, trying to maximize efficiency.
Meanwhile, as my hair attempts to dry, I open the makeup compact and begin applying foundation with practiced strokes. Multi-tasking my ass off because I’m down to five minutes now. I blend and pat and smooth, all while angling different sections of my hair toward the dryer’s relentless stream.
The lipstick—that specific rose matte shade that Giovanni deemed appropriate—is the final touch. Not too bright to suggest independence, not too nude to appear unprepared. The perfect middle ground of feminine submission packaged in a designer tube.
Two minutes left. I turn the hair dryer off, feeling the sudden silence press against my eardrums. My hair isn’t perfectly dry, but it’ll have to do. I drag a wooden-handled brush throughthe still-damp waves, working methodically from root to end, watching as each stroke transforms my unruly mane into something more controlled, more acceptable, more Giovanni-approved.
The brush’s teeth catch on a small tangle, and I wince, carefully working it free before continuing my meticulous grooming ritual.
When I’m finished, I set the brush down with a soft click against the marble countertop and take a good long look at myself in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me is polished, presentable, and utterly unfamiliar—a carefully constructed façade wrapped in expensive fabric and subtle makeup.
Her eyes, my eyes, seem to silently ask questions I’m not ready to answer about who exactly I’m becoming in this fourth-floor attic bedroom, in this house, in this strange new life where every chain I’m wearing right now has been chosen.
Fifty-nine seconds. No time for existential crises when you’re on the clock.
I get my phone from my tote bag, toss it into the clutch next to the mint and the Advil, and smooth the skirt one final time before bolting from the room like I’m escaping a burning building.
Armor on, mask secure. Showtime.
The staircase is steep and narrow, designed for servants who were meant to be invisible, not women in four-inch heels carrying designer purses. I take each step with the focused precision of someone who knows the cost of failure—both financial and physical.
When I reach the second-floor landing, voices drift up from below. I freeze mid-step, my body going still with the instinct of prey. Giovanni’s voice cuts through the air—not yelling,but something more controlled. More dangerous. The whisper-equivalent of a shout.
“—not a discussion. You’re leaving now in Dom’s Escalade. You’re going home and you’re not coming back.”
I inch forward, careful to stay just out of sight, and peer down the stairwell. The glitter girls from earlier are now wearing clothes that look like they were put on in a hurry—wrinkled dresses, mismatched shoes. They’re clutching designer bags to their chests like life preservers.
“But Giovanni, we just—” one starts.
“Now.” One word, delivered with such finality that even I feel its weight from two floors up.
The women scurry toward the door without looking back. Once they’re gone, Giovanni turns to his two friends—now dressed in black suits straight out of a Scorsese film. The transformation from boxer-brief bros to mob enforcers is jarring.
“No more girls,” Giovanni says, straightening his cufflinks. “Not in my house. You want to play, rent your own place.”
The bigger one—Dom, I think—runs a hand over his shaved head. “Come on, G. It’s been this way since?—”
“Things change,” Giovanni cuts him off. “This isn’t Pittsburgh.”
Ricky, the fidgety one, shifts his weight. “Look, we’re sorry about the mess. We’ll clean it up, we always do.”
Giovanni holds up a hand, and both men fall silent instantly. “Don’t do that. Don’t treat me like I’m the boss. We’re friends. We’re equals.”
Dom lets out a bark of laughter. “Equals? Since when?”
“Since always,” Giovanni says, his voice softening. “Since you took that beating for me when we were fourteen.”