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)
Armor on, mask secure. Showtime.
The staircase is steep and narrow, designed for servants who were meant to be invisible, not women in four-inch heels carrying designer purses. I take each step with the focused precision of someone who knows the cost of failure—both financial and physical.
When I reach the second-floor landing, voices drift up from below. I freeze mid-step, my body going still with the instinct of prey. Giovanni’s voice cuts through the air—not yelling, but something more controlled. More dangerous. The whisper-equivalent of a shout.
“—not a discussion. You’re leaving now in Dom’s Escalade. You’re going home and you’re not coming back.”
I inch forward, careful to stay just out of sight, and peer down the stairwell. The glitter girls from earlier are now wearing clothes that look like they were put on in a hurry—wrinkled dresses, mismatched shoes. They’re clutching designer bags to their chests like life preservers.
“But Giovanni, we just—” one starts.
“Now.” One word, delivered with such finality that even I feel its weight from two floors up.
The women scurry toward the door without looking back. Once they’re gone, Giovanni turns to his two friends—now dressed in black suits straight out of a Scorsese film. The transformation from boxer-brief bros to mob enforcers is jarring.
“No more girls,” Giovanni says, straightening his cufflinks. “Not in my house. You want to play, rent your own place.”
The bigger one—Dom, I think—runs a hand over his shaved head. “Come on, G. It’s been this way since—”
“Things change,” Giovanni cuts him off. “This isn’t Pittsburgh.”
Ricky, the fidgety one, shifts his weight. “Look, we’re sorry about the mess. We’ll clean it up, we always do.”
Giovanni holds up a hand, and both men fall silent instantly. “Don’t do that. Don’t treat me like I’m the boss. We’re friends. We’re equals.”
Dom lets out a bark of laughter. “Equals? Since when?”
“Since always,” Giovanni says, his voice softening. “Since you took that beating for me when we were fourteen.”
“That was nothing,” Dom shrugs, but I can see his posture relax. “You would’ve done the same.”
“I would have,” Giovanni agrees. “And I have.”
Ricky slaps Giovanni on the back with surprising familiarity. “Alright, alright. No more girls at Casa Bavga. We’ll find somewhere else to entertain.”
“Somewhere without cameras,” Dom adds with a grin.
“I don’t want to know,” Giovanni says, but there’s something almost like affection in his voice.
“You never do.” Ricky laughs. “That’s why we love you, you uptight bastard.”
They share a look that speaks of decades of history—childhood scraped knees, and teenage fistfights, and adult secrets. I’m an intruder witnessing something private, and I feel suddenly uncomfortable. These men are killers in designer suits, but they’re also... friends?
It doesn’t compute.
I continue my descent, each step carefully measured to announce my presence without seeming like I was eavesdropping. All three men turn at the sound, but my eyes lock on Giovanni.
He’s wearing a charcoal gray suit that makes his black-clad friends look like amateur hour. The fabric drapes across his shoulders with the reverence of something custom-made and obscenely expensive. His hair is styled with a precision that would make a neurosurgeon jealous.
He looks good.
No, he looks dangerous. There’s a difference. I need to remember that.
Dom and Ricky exchange a look, mumble something about seeing him in Pittsburgh, and exit through the front door. Giovanni watches them go, then turns back to me, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second.
I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. Score one for homeless shelter girl.
“Did you... take a shower?” he asks, genuine disbelief coloring his voice.
I nod, my smile growing. “I did.”
His brow furrows in calculation. “How the hell did you manage that? You had twenty minutes.”
I reach the bottom step, now eye-level with him. “I ravel, remember? Survival mode is kind of my thing.”
Giovanni stares at me for a long second, his lush green eyes scanning my face like he’s looking for the trick, the hidden wire, the explanation for how I’ve managed to transform from frumpy cardigan girl to white-clad corporate Barbie in under twenty minutes.
Then, without warning, he offers me his arm.
The gesture is so unexpected, so oddly formal and gentlemanly, that I feel heat rush to my face. Is this embarrassment? Desire? The unholy fusion of both? I don’t have time to analyze it because his arm is still extended, and he’s waiting.
I place my hand in the crook of his elbow, feeling the expensive fabric of his suit against my palm. The contact sends an electric current up my spine that I desperately try to ignore.
We walk out of the house together in perfect step, like we’ve been doing this for years. Like I belong on the arm of a man who probably has people killed between breakfast meetings.
Outside, Giovanni leads me to the passenger side of the Lamborghini. He opens the door, and it rises dramatically upward. The two notebooks from earlier are waiting for us like a plot twist. Giovanni quickly picks them up and offers them to me. “Put them in your purse.”.