Rico shifts his weight. Laughs. Rests his hand on Dom’s shoulder with false camaraderie. “Fantastic. Let’s get this party started.”
Dom looks back at me as Rico wraps his arm around his shoulder, forcing him to walk with him through the tunnel of wisteria vines that lead from the pool house to the pool.
I shake my head. That shake says,Don’t do anything. I’ll handle this.
Then I turn back to the pool house where Emmaleen Rourke has no idea what’s coming her way.
16
Welcome to the Bavga Family Murder Mansion, population: me, my bad decisions, and a king-sized bed that’s practically screaming “plot development.”
The blackout blinds have plunged me into darkness so complete I might as well be in a sensory deprivation tank. Or a coffin.
Equally comforting options.
I press my ear against the front door of the pool house like I’m auditioning for the role of Nosy Neighbor #3 in a community theater production ofRear Window. The voices outside are muffled—angry male syllables that don’t quite form words through the soundproofing. Great. I’m trapped in a glass box that’s suddenly not glass anymore, listening to what might be my boss plotting murder or ordering pizza. The context clues are slim.
Didn’t I wake up this morning in a homeless shelter? Wasn’t I just standing at a desk in too-big red shoes three hours ago?
The timeline of my day reads like someone with severe ADHD wrote it while on a cocaine bender.
Let’s recap, shall we?
Late to work. Check. Nothing says “professional” like missing your start time on day one.
The contract with its “Sistema di Demerito”—Italian for “Ways Emmaleen Will Fail Today.” A series of punishments that apparently include “surprise road trip to mob family dinner.” Very normal workplace policy.
Who can forget, Satan’s stilettos?
Standing for hours sorting meaningless papers while Giovanni watched me like I was a particularly interesting science experiment.
The errand to get a suit from his bedroom. A trap disguised as a task.
Driving the Lamborghini—okay, that part was actually incredible, if we’re being honest. Felt like piloting a spaceship designed by someone who hates poor people.
The mansion that belongs in a murder mystery dinner theater.
The closet filled with clothes in my exact size, which means he’s either psychic or had me measured in my sleep, and I’m not sure which is creepier.
And finally, the offer: “Unless... you come with me.”
Five words that weren’t really an offer but a test. Or a trap. Or both.
Now I’m staring at a king-sized bed that dominates the space like Chekhov’s most obvious gun. He said he’d take the couch—the world’s least convincing lie. That bed is waiting like the final boss in a video game I didn’t know I was playing.
This isn’t a job. It’s an audition forStockholm Syndrome: The Musical.
I am spectacularly, monumentally, award-winningly stupid. That’s the only logical conclusion I can possibly come to after reviewing the evidence before me. My decision-making skills deserve their own special category of Darwin Award—one where you survive just long enough to keep making progressively worsechoices until the universe itself has to step in and say, “Honey…no.”
But what’s my alternative?
Twenty-one days until complete homelessness.
I’ve got eight demerits hanging over my head.
And a chance—very slight, practically minuscule chance—to earn life-changing money.
And in that context… I’ve made worse decisions.