“But Enzo was old,” Giovanni continues, his fingers tapping once, twice against the leather steering wheel. “He had cancer. Painful. Terminal.”
I watch his profile as he speaks, trying to reconcile this oddly gentle storyteller with the man who casually mentioned shooting someone at age eight.
“Jino couldn’t bear to take him to a veterinarian’s office to be put down. Said it was too clinical for family.”
Family. The word echoes strangely when applied to a dog. But I get it. My parents’ cat was more sibling than pet to me growing up.
“One winter night, my Uncle Manzu made the difficult decision to end the dog’s suffering at home.”
The car suddenly feels colder. I wrap my arms around myself, already knowing where this is going.
“I was staying with them that weekend. They asked me to help dig a grave in the woods behind their property.” Giovanni’s voice remains steady, but something in his tone shifts, becoming more precise, more detailed. “The ground was frozen. We needed pickaxes. My hands were raw by the time we finished.”
I can picture it vividly—three dark figures in the woods, breath clouding in the winter air, the sound of metal striking frozen earth.
“After it was done, I helped wrap Enzo in his favorite blanket. The three of us carried him to the grave under an oak tree where he used to rest in the summer. We marked it with stones. Jino said a few words.”
Giovanni falls silent, his story apparently complete. The only sound is the purr of the engine and the rush of air outside.
I should feel relieved. It was just a dog. A mercy killing for a beloved pet. Not a mob hit or a business rival or whatever horror story I’d been bracing for.
And yet.
There’s something in the careful way he told it. The precision of certain details—the frozen ground, the blanket, the oak tree—alongside the complete absence of others. Like how exactly Uncle Manzu “ended the suffering.” Like whether this was the only body Giovanni had helped bury, or just the one he’s willing to tell me about.
It’s like being handed a beautifully wrapped gift box that might contain either chocolates or a severed finger. The packaging doesn’t quite match what you sense is inside.
I realize I’m staring at him, trying to read truth in the angles of his face. His expression gives away nothing—no grief, no emotion at all. Just that perfect control that he claims makes him bad at poker.
“That’s the body you buried?” I finally ask, my voice sounding small in the confines of the car.
“That’s the body I buried,” he confirms, eyes still on the road. “Your turn.”
Your turn. Great. Because what follows “I buried a body” in normal conversation is definitely “Now you share something fun about yourself!”
I need to reassess. Fast. This isn’t a date. It’s not even a job interview anymore. It’s a weird psychological experiment where I’m both lab rat and co-researcher.
“Okay,” I say, straightening in my seat. The white pencil skirt creases at the hip. “Two lies and a truth.”
Giovanni’s eyes remain on the road, but I can feel his attention shift fully to me, like a spotlight swinging in my direction. It’s unnerving how he can do that without even looking at me.
“I wrote a paper in college called ‘How to Banter like a Gilmore Girl.’” I deliver this with perfect deadpan.
His eyebrow twitches. Interesting.
“I did a trapeze act for my senior-year talent show.” Second statement, equally flat.
“I trained puppies for the blind.” Third statement, same tone.
The corner of Giovanni’s mouth quirks up slightly. “TheGilmore Girlspaper is true.”
Of course he gets it right. Because God forbid Giovanni Bavga ever be wrong about anything.
“How did you know?” I ask, genuinely curious despite myself.
“The way you talk.” He glances at me briefly. “Fast. Reference-heavy. You don’t just like the show—you studied it. Analyzed its rapid-fire dialogue patterns until you could replicate them perfectly.” His eyes return to the road, but I feel the weight of his assessment lingering. “Your speech has that same cadence when you’re comfortable—words tumbling out in carefully constructed volleys, packed with cultural touchpoints most people miss. It’s deliberate, that rhythm. Not something you’d claim unless you’d actually dissected it academically.”
Well, damn. That’s... uncomfortably accurate.