Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Oh good,” I mutter. “I get to drive Satan’s toboggan.”
It’s not a car. It’s a threat shaped like a vehicle. A middle finger to fuel economy and practical transportation. The kind of car that makes environmentalists develop eye twitches and insurance adjusters spontaneously retire.
No normal person should own something this... pointy. The hood stretches forward in sharp, flat planes that look like they were designed specifically to slice through both air resistance and the self-esteem of anyone driving a sensible sedan. The angles are so aggressive they make geometry seem hostile.
If Darth Vader had a weekend track hobby, he’d drive this. Actually, no—Vader would look at this and think it was trying too hard.
Red brake calipers peek out from behind the black wheels like the sole splash of color in a noir film. War paint. A warning. The automotive equivalent of a venomous creature’s bright markings: Danger. Do not touch. Will cause financial ruin if approached.
The windows are tinted to a darkness that surely exceeds legal limits. Giovanni probably had to bribe someone at the DMV, or more likely, just stared at them until they approved whatever he wanted. I can’t see inside at all—it’s like looking at obsidian.
This vehicle doesn’t share the road with other cars. It tolerates their existence. It looks like it eats Priuses for breakfast and picks its teeth with motorcycle parts.
I approach with the caution of someone nearing an unidentified species. The cracked pavement is rough against my bare feet, tiny pebbles pressing into my arches. Each step reminds me that I’ve descended from “professional assistant” to “shoeless disaster” in record time.
My reflection warps across the door’s surface, stretching and compressing like I’m being digitally altered in real time. Even my reflection looks wrong on this car—too ordinary, too rumpled, too human for something so engineered.
I stand there, key fob in hand, suddenly realizing I have absolutely no idea how to get into this thing.
Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this… becomes my mantra as I start searching for anything resembling a normal door handle. Giovanni didn’t seem to have a problem the other day, but me? Nope. I’m the world’s most clueless mob assistant.
I poke tentatively at what looks like a promising seam. Nothing happens except my fingerprint marring the perfect surface. Great. Now I’ve literally left my mark on his precious car. Add another demerit to the growing collection.
I tap lightly on the glass, as if the car might respond to polite knocking. Unsurprisingly, it remains as unyielding as its owner.
Crouching slightly, I mutter a string of increasingly creative profanities. My bladder sends another urgent telegram to my brain: FIND BATHROOM IMMEDIATELY OR FACE CONSEQUENCES.
Finally, I spot it—a tiny recessed button tucked under the wing mirror like an afterthought. Or more likely, a test. Another one of Giovanni’s little puzzles designed to make me feel stupid.
I press it with my thumb, half-expecting an alarm to sound.
Instead—whoosh—the door launches upward with the hydraulic enthusiasm of a spacecraft airlock, narrowly missing my face.
I stumble backward, nearly dropping both the shoes and my dignity. My heart kicks against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
“For fuck’s sake,” I gasp. “Who needs doors that dramatic? Was a normal hinge too pedestrian?”
The door hovers above me at an angle that feels more like a challenge than an invitation. I eye the opening warily, suddenly very aware that I have no idea how to close it once I’m inside. Or worse, what if it decides to slam shut while I’m climbing in?
I take a deep breath and lean forward, peering into the Lamborghini’s interior like I’m inspecting the mouth of a sedated shark. I was in this thing the other day, obviously, but I was too stunned and in shock to take notice of anything but how my life was imploding.
Now, I can’t stop looking. The leather seats are black—what other color would the Prince of Darkness choose for his chariot? They look butter-soft and the interior smells like money—that distinct blend of leather, cologne, and privilege that you can’t bottle but instantly recognize. It’s the olfactory equivalent of someone saying “my summer home” in casual conversation.
Then, I see them. Two leather notebooks placed dead center on the driver’s seat, looking simultaneously innocuous and deeply threatening. I glance around the empty parking lot. Is this another test? A trap? Did Giovanni expect me to find these, or am I about to commit some cardinal sin by touching his sacred texts?
Fifty-two thousand dollars, I remind myself. Fifty-two thousand.
For that kind of money, I’d read his grocery lists upside down in Aramaic if he asked.
I reach in and pick up the first notebook with the cautious reverence of someone handling an unexploded ordnance. It’s heavier than it looks—matte cover, cream pages that feel thick and expensive between my fingers. This isn’t your basic Moleskine knockoff from Target. This is bespoke stationery, probably handcrafted by Italian monks who’ve taken vows of silence and poverty.