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 isn’t just a weird quirk. It’s deliberate. A test hidden in plain sight, tucked away where most people wouldn’t even notice it. How many other invisible tripwires has he laid out for me?
Giovanni didn’t just hand me his car keys and send me on an errand. He constructed this entire scenario—from the impossible-to-open doors to the Italian-speaking dashboard to this absurdly specific speed limit—as an elaborate trap designed for me to fail.
The realization should make me panic.
Instead, I feel something else crystallizing.
Pure, clarifying anger.
I ease the car down to exactly 6.0 mph, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Game on, asshole.
The driveway curves up through dense trees before revealing the mansion in full: restored Victorian, slate roof, leaded windows, and a porch wide enough to land a helicopter. It looks like a historical landmark someone bought just to make a point.
Like the architectural equivalent of a yacht—screaming “I have money” in fourteen different languages while pretending it’s just a quaint hobby. The kind of place where ghosts would take one look and decide, “Nah, too pretentious even for the undead.”
Bass vibrates through the air, rattling the windows. Monday noon and it sounds like Friday night inside a private club with a thousand-dollar cover charge. Who parties on a Monday? People who don’t have jobs, that’s who.
Or… people who work for Giovanni Bavga.
The circular stone drive stretches before me, every pebble perfectly raked like some dystopian zen garden. No welcoming committee. No valet in white gloves to take the keys. Just me, this ridiculous car, and a house that seems to be looking down its architectural nose at my arrival.
I park badly. Intentionally badly? No, just regular bad. The Lambo ends up at an angle that would make any self-respecting car enthusiast develop a twitch. It’s crooked enough to shame me, not enough to justify fixing it. Perfectionism, meet spite. My new favorite couple.
I shut off the engine with a final dramatic snarl and sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel. My bladder sends another urgent telegram: VACATE AT ONCE OR SUFFER REPERCUSSIONS.
I can’t make it to the front door.
I scan the perimeter like a prison escapee. Left side: dense trees, enough foliage to provide cover from security cameras. Probably. Unless Giovanni has trail cams strapped to every oak like some paranoid wildlife photographer.
Decision made. I climb out barefoot, wincing as my feet touch the stone drive. With the determined stride of someone who’s made peace with dignity being a luxury item they can no longer afford, I march toward the tree line.
My yellow cardigan gets tugged down for maximum coverage as I squat behind a particularly accommodating rhododendron. This is fine. This is totally normal. Just peeing outside a mob boss’s mansion while barefoot in a thrift store outfit. Standard Monday activities.
I don’t cry, but it’s a near thing. My eyes sting with that specific blend of humiliation and relief that only comes from answering nature’s call in nature itself. I’ve hit rock bottom, and now I’m literally marking it.
Task completed, I stand and brush invisible dirt from my skirt. Shoulders back, chin up—the universal posture of someone pretending they haven’t just committed a minor crime on private property. I march back to the car like I’ve just been admiring the landscaping. Nothing to see here. Just a professional assistant taking a professional nature break.
I grab my tote bag from the passenger seat, clutching those ridiculous red heels in one hand like they’re evidence at a murder trial. The front steps of the mansion rise before me—wide, imposing, probably original but restored to perfection.
The door is cracked open just enough to make me wonder if it’s an invitation or the beginning of a horror movie. The bass from inside is making the actual porch vibrate beneath my feet, like I’m standing on a giant subwoofer.
I hesitate, hand hovering near the ornate brass knocker. What’s the protocol here? Knock on an already open door? Announce myself like I’m entering a bathroom stall? Text my new boss that I’m outside his house holding his stolen shoes after peeing in his shrubbery?
I push the door open with my fingertips.
It swings with the weight of a bank vault, heavy and deliberate. Reinforced, obviously. Because when you’re rich enough to buy a historical landmark as your weekend home, you’re rich enough to make it bulletproof.
The scene inside hits all five senses at once, like walking face-first into a nightclub at noon.
Two men are sprawled across mid-century modern couches wearing nothing but boxer shorts and self-satisfaction. Three women draped across them and the furniture like decorative throws, their bodies covered in what appears to be strategic glitter placement rather than actual clothing. The room carries the scent of expensive people doing cheap things.
Empty glasses litter every surface. Crushed velvet pillows have been tossed around like they’ve been in a pillow fight where nobody won but everyone got a participation trophy.