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)
This is fine.
My yellow cardigan flaps behind me like a coward’s cape as I walk out, the cool morning air slapping me awake. The calendar insists it’s still summer, but fall’s already staging a coup. The warmth will claw back at noon, die at dusk, and in a few weeks—twenty-one days, ironic—the last light of summer will fall like a toppled regime.
My boots hit the sidewalk with more confidence than I feel—cracked leather, barely holding together, but louder than fear. Like we’re both pretending to be something we’re not.
I don’t sit on the bus. Standing feels safer. Easier to make an exit if this all goes sideways. The bus is mostly empty—small town, small dreams. I grip the railing and pull my cardigan tight, as if yellow cotton could pass for armor.
Lemon cardigan, oatmeal tank, sage skirt with buttercream flowers—I look like a Whole Foods aisle had a one-night stand with a Pinterest board. The skirt flutters when I shift, almost pretty, almost brave. The boots creak—a warning and a comfort. My tote bumps my hip, the faded Save the Bees patch catching the light like it still believes in something. I don’t. But it’s part of the costume. The illusion that this patchwork of thrift and hope might still pass for functional.
It’s just a job, I tell myself. Just a man. Giovanni Bavga—polished menace with a face that could launch a thousand HR complaints. I remember how he looked at me in the interview. Not dismissive. Not even cruel. Just clinical, like he saw my cracks and filed them under useful.
I get off the bus two blocks early because I’ve misjudged the time; it’s twenty-five minutes till eight, and apparently I’m now the kind of person who punishes herself with unnecessary cardio. Nothing says “I’m professional and definitely won’t bring crime family drama into your life” like showing up slightly sweaty and panting.
The restaurant sits across the street like a glossy magazine cover—all polished windows and elegant lettering that practically whispers, “We don’t accept EBT cards.” The name Bavga’s curves in script that hints at vintage calligraphy.
7:45. The sweet spot of employment humiliation. My heart pounds but I cross the street with my chin lifted in what I hope reads as determination rather than rigor mortis of the facial muscles.
Still my chains. Still my choice.
I cling to my new mantra like it’s the last life vest on the Titanic.
I’ve survived worse.
The door handle feels cold under my palm. I tug. Nothing happens. I pull harder, because clearly the problem is insufficient upper body strength and not, you know, a locked door. The handle remains unmoved, like my employment prospects.
I press my face against the glass like a Victorian orphan eyeing a Christmas feast. Chairs stacked upside down on tables. Lights off. The place has big “everyone died in the apocalypse” energy.
A sign stares back at me with the smug certainty of a hall monitor catching you without a bathroom pass: Tuesday–Sunday, 5 p.m. to 11 p.m. Closed Monday.
I check my phone. 7:48 a.m. Monday. Definitely Monday.
My stomach performs an Olympic-worthy triple axel with a twist. Cold dread slithers under my skin like a snake looking for somewhere warm to hibernate.
Be here at 8 a.m. Monday morning. Don’t be late. That’s what he said. Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe this is some kind of test. Maybe I’m about to ugly-cry on a public sidewalk in front of a closed restaurant while wearing a cardigan the color of optimism’s corpse.
I take a deep breath, switch to survival mode, and do what any sensible person would do in a high-pressure situation: I circle the building like I’m casing it for a heist. Because nothing says “reliable new employee” like prowling around a mobster’s restaurant on Monday morning.
The alley behind Bavga’s is suspiciously immaculate. Not your standard restaurant back-alley with cigarette butts and mysterious puddles that might be rainwater (but definitely aren’t). This is operating-room clean. Witness-protection clean. “We’ve-definitely-disposed-of-bodies-here-but-you’ll-never-find-evidence” clean.
And there it is—the Lamborghini, parked like a shark in shallow water. Matte black, all angles and aggression, looking both impossibly expensive and impossibly dangerous. The car equivalent of a loaded gun on a coffee table. He’s here. Somewhere. Probably watching me flail like a PBS documentary on job interview anxiety.
I knock on the back door with what I hope is professional crispness but sounds more like a terrified woodpecker. Nothing. I knock again, harder this time, channeling the energy of every unreturned text I’ve ever sent. Still nothing. Just silence and my rapidly evaporating dignity.
It’s 8:03 now. I’ve officially crossed the threshold from “punctual” to “problem.” My stomach feels like it’s hosting tryouts for Cirque du Soleil. Was this some elaborate setup? A test of initiative? Or just the universe’s way of saying “Nice try with the yellow cardigan, but poverty is more your color”?