I think.
The door beeps with all the cheerful innocence of a bomb timer reaching zero. I step back instinctively—fight or flight kicking in—and my heel catches on the edge of a rug I didn’t even register was there.
Physics does the rest. My arms pinwheel in that universal “I’m going down” semaphore, and suddenly I’m sprawled on my ass like a toddler who just discovered gravity is a thing.
Giovanni looms in the doorway, silhouetted against the fading light outside. His expression cycles through confusion, annoyance, and something that might be amusement if he were capable of human emotions.
“Why are you on the floor.” Not even a question. Just a flat observation, like I’ve chosen to have an impromptu picnic on his expensive rug.
“I thought I’d check out your interior decorating from a different angle.” I hastily swat hair out of my eyes, trying to maintain whatever microscopic shred of dignity I have left. “The ceiling really ties the room together.”
Now comes the real Olympic event: Getting up off the floor in a white pencil skirt that’s approximately as flexible as medieval armor. I attempt to leverage myself up with one hand while keeping my knees together, but the skirt constricts around my thighs like a python. I try a different approach, rolling to oneside and pushing up with my elbow, but that just makes me look like a beached sea creature.
Giovanni watches this gymnastics routine with the detached interest of a slug. After what feels like several geological epochs, he finally extends his hand.
I stare at it like it might be radioactive. Taking it means admitting defeat. Not taking it means spending the rest of my natural life on this floor.
I take his hand. It’s warm and dry and strong, and he pulls me up with insulting ease, like I weigh nothing.
“Thanks,” I mutter, smoothing down the skirt that betrayed me.
Giovanni is already moving, striding toward a desk in the corner. “We have a problem,” he says, yanking open a drawer. “Rico planned this. It’s a trap.”
He pulls out a thick letter-sized envelope while continuing his exposition dump. “He hates me, I hate him. It’s mutual. Has been since we were children.”
I’m trying to follow, but my attention keeps snagging on that envelope.
It’s bulging with something.
Meanwhile, Giovanni is monologuing. The names start blurring together—Luca or Luigi or someone important enough to kill someone else important. I nod at appropriate intervals, making concerned faces when his tone drops, widening my eyes when his jaw tightens. But really, I’m watching his hands unfold the envelope to reveal stacks of cash.
Actual, physical, rectangular green money. Thousands of dollars, by the look of it.
“—and now he’s here, which means this is going to turn into a bloody disaster because the last time we were in the same room?—”
I tune back in just as Giovanni finally winds down his mobster family tree presentation. He holds out several bills.
“Here.”
I stare at the money, then at him. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Five hundred. It’s best if you leave.” His face is unreadable. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out. You still had eight demerits, but I’m gonna pay you anyway.”
My brain is buffering, struggling to process the abrupt shift.
“I’ll call you an Uber.” He raises a hand when I open my mouth. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover the ride back to Riverview.”
The information finally clicks into place.
He’s firing me.Again.
I let out a breath. It’s controlled, but long and filled with accusations—the kind that would scorch the earth if I actually vocalized them. The air hisses through my teeth, carrying with it all the frustration of being jerked around like a marionette on tangled strings.
My chest tightens as I hold back the flood of words threatening to spill over. This controlled exhalation is the thinnest veneer of civility stretched over a foundation of pure, unadulterated rage.
Every molecule of air that leaves my lungs is charged with the electricity of unspoken questions, of trust shattered against the ragged edges of his inconsistency.
“I come all this way with you, just so you can fire me?Again?” My voice rises with each word, incredulity and anger swirling together like a particularly toxic cocktail.