I don’t rush her. This is part of the game too—letting her think, letting her believe she has all the time in the world to make her choice. The matte black interior of the Lamborghini creates an intimate cocoon around us, the tinted windowsshutting out the world while containing our private exchange. Her breathing has slowed, become more deliberate as she considers each possibility, mentally testing them against what little she knows of me.
A slight furrow appears between her brows as she tilts her head, the sunlight filtering through the windshield highlighting those scattered freckles across her nose. She tucks a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear, a gesture that seems unconscious, vulnerable.
“The third one,” she says finally, the words emerging with quiet certainty. Her eyes meet mine directly, unflinching in their assessment. “You shot someone when you were eight.”
The confession hangs in the air between us, neither accusation nor question—just a simple statement of fact she’s somehow extracted from my carefully constructed game. Her posture shifts slightly, shoulders squaring as if bracing for my reaction, but there’s no fear in her expression, only a calm, analytical curiosity.
I can see she wanted to choose the first one. She wants to see me as someone...normal. Someone who exists in her world, someone whose moral compass aligns with hers, whose past is filled with her quaint values and wholesome traditions. The kind of man who remembers birthdays and has embarrassing childhood photos his mother keeps in albums.
We are not the same.
And she needs to understand this fundamental truth. The sooner she accepts the reality of who I am, not who she wishes I could be, the better for both of us. There is no version of this story where I transform into something palatable for her sensibilities.
“Correct,” I say, watching something flicker across her face—realization, perhaps, or the first genuine understanding of who she’s truly sitting beside.
She blows out a breath, her shoulders dropping slightly as she processes this revelation. “Wow. OK.” She shifts in her seat, tucking one leg beneath her as she turns to face me more directly. “Most mobsters start with something like ‘I dressed up like Pennywise and went to school when I was ten and it wasn’t even Halloween.’ Or ‘My first car was a beat-up VW van and came with a bumper sticker that said, “I Heart Hair Bands”.’ You know, the kind of harmless, embarrassing confessions that make you seem more... human. But not you.” She snort laughs. “No. Giovanni Bavga goes straight for ‘I killed someone as a child.’ That’s... quite the introduction.” She glances up, searching my face. “Was that meant to shock me?”
“I didn’t say Ikilledsomeone, Emmaleen. I said Ishotsomeone.”
She exhales. Her eyes widen slightly, and I can practically see the mental recalibration happening behind those pale green irises. Feeling confused and disjointed, no doubt. The distinction I’ve made hangs in the air between us—a technicality that somehow makes everything both clearer and murkier at once.
“Details matter. By the way,” I say, reaching for the mode selector on the center console, my fingers sliding over the machined aluminum with practiced precision. “You drove to my house in Corsa. Race mode.” I turn the dial, feeling the car’s suspension immediately soften as it switches to Strada. The Aventador responds instantly, its aggressive growl settling into something more civilized. “This is Strada. Street mode. More comfortable for longer drives.”
The car settles into a smoother rhythm beneath us, the harsh vibrations melting away.
“The Aventador has three main drive modes,” I continue, not entirely sure why I’m explaining this to her. Perhaps because technical details are safer than the confession stilllingering between us. “Strada for normal driving, Sport for more aggressive handling, and Corsa for track use. In Corsa, everything is optimized for performance, not comfort. The throttle response is more immediate, the suspension is firmer, the steering more direct.”
She shifts in her seat, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear before fixing those observant eyes on me. “Well, that was a let’s-change-the-subject segue if ever there was one,” she says, her voice carrying a hint of wry amusement despite the heaviness of our previous exchange.
“That’s not what I was doing.” The denial comes automatically, perhaps too quickly. “If I didn’t want you to know I shot someone when I was eight, I wouldn’t have told you. I don’t share things accidentally, Emmaleen.”
The confession hangs between us, dense and unavoidable. An ugly truth that should repel her. That would send any rational person running for the exit, screaming for help, begging to be released from this arrangement. The kind of revelation designed to test boundaries, to see what she can tolerate.
If she ever knew the real me, she’d leave so fast...
But she’s still here. Still watching. Still calculating her next move in our little game. Her expression reveals a complex mixture of wariness and curiosity that I find unexpectedly compelling.
“Your turn,” I say, redirecting us back to the game, curious to see what this enigmatic woman will reveal when given the chance to craft her own lies and truths.
She stares out the window, chewing her lower lip. The silence stretches between us—forty-seven seconds pass. Her finger taps against her knee, a chipped pink nail making tiny percussive sounds against the fabric of her skirt.
This shouldn’t interest me. A woman contemplating her next move in a trivial car game isn’t worth my attention. Andyet, I find myself watching her peripheral movements as she formulates her strategy.
A slow-moving truck drifts into my lane without signaling. I shift lanes smoothly, accelerating past the hazard without disrupting our conversation. Emmaleen doesn’t notice the maneuver—still lost in whatever mental calculation she’s running. Her absorption is almost... impressive. Almost… cute.
Finally, she straightens in her seat, decision made.
“I once competed in a spelling bee and lost on the word ‘pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.’”
Her pronunciation is flawless—each syllable articulated with precise confidence. Well done.
“I wrote a poem for a chance at a five-thousand-dollar scholarship from a famous coffeehouse and won.”
She delivers this second statement with a hint of embarrassment, as though admitting to some juvenile indiscretion rather than an achievement.
“I hosted a podcast where I translated Shakespeare into modern slang.”
The final option is offered with a theatrical flourish of her hand, her eyes meeting mine briefly before returning to the road ahead.