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)
Of course she will. She’s desperate, and I’ve made damn sure she knows it. The hook is set, and now I’m reeling her in, one calculated tug at a time.
“Make yourself presentable,” I tell her, my voice dropping to that commanding register that brooks no argument. “Change into the white outfit in the garment bag and meet me downstairs in twenty minutes.”
13
Twenty minutes. Twenty whole minutes to transform from Cinderella-pre-makeover to Cinderella-post-makeover, minus the helpful singing mice and plus a sociopathic mob boss waiting downstairs.
Totally doable. Absolutely fine. Not a problem at all.
I stare at the bathroom that’s bigger than my entire corner of the women’s shelter. The shower alone could house a family of four. There’s a rainfall showerhead, body jets, and—is that a steam function? I’m standing in front of the bathroom equivalent of a Tesla while I’ve been bathing in the shelter’s 1992 Honda Civic with three missing hubcaps.
Nineteen minutes now.
I’ve never undressed so fast in my life. My thrift store outfit hits the marble floor with the dignity of a dropped napkin. Hair elastic goes flying, and I’m practically diving into the shower before the water’s even warm.
Cold! Cold cold cold—and then suddenly perfect. Like being baptized in liquid silk.
The shelf of products looks like the fancy section of Sephora, the part I always avoided because making eye contact with those bottles felt like making eye contact with people who summer in the Hamptons. I grab a shampoo bottle that probably costs more than my last electric bill.
“Infused with Moroccan argan oil and harvested by virgins under a full moon,” I mutter, squeezing a dollop into my palm. “For the discerning criminal who appreciates ethical sourcing.”
The scent hits me—something woodsy and citrus and expensive—and for a second I just stand there, transported. I haven’t smelled anything this good since... I can’t even remember. The shelter soap smells like industrial-strength sadness.
Seventeen minutes.
Conditioner. Rinse. Some leave-in treatment that promises to repair split ends and probably your credit score too.
I grab a body wash that looks like it was personally blessed by Gwyneth Paltrow and lather up. It smells like what rich people think forests smell like—not actual forests, but the idea of forests, curated and bottled and sold for eighty dollars an ounce.
And then—glory of glories—a brand new razor. Not the disposable kind that feels like shaving with a rusty butter knife. This is the Mercedes-Benz of razors, with more lubricant strips than I’ve had decent meals this month.
I attack my legs with the enthusiasm of someone who hasn’t had the luxury of smooth skin in weeks. The shelter’s communal shower situation means quick in-and-outs, not spa days.
And then, in a moment of what can only be described as temporary insanity, I find myself tidying up... other areas.
“What are you doing?” I hiss at myself, horrified. “Planning to seduce the mob boss? Great strategy, Em. Very original. Never been done before except in literally every bad romance novel ever written.”
But I finish anyway because, well, it’s been a while since I’ve felt human, let alone feminine, and there’s something deeply satisfying about reclaiming this small bit of dignity. Even if nobody sees it. Especially if nobody sees it.
Fifteen minutes left.
I step out onto a bath mat so plush I consider asking if it’s looking for a roommate. Wrap myself in a towel that feels like it was woven from clouds and the dreams of angels.
For a moment—just a breath—I allow myself to enjoy this. Hot water. Clean skin. The absence of other women’s hair in the drain. The silence. God, the silence. No snoring roommate, no crying children down the hall, no Sister Margaret’s sensible shoes squeaking past my door at 5 a.m.
Then reality crashes back in. I’m in Giovanni Bavga’s house. I’ve agreed to go to Pittsburgh with him. I’ve signed a contract I don’t fully understand. I’m standing in his guest bathroom with thirteen demerits hanging over my head like the world’s most passive-aggressive sword of Damocles.
And I’m... excited?
That can’t be right. I should be terrified. I should be plotting my escape. I should be wondering if I’m about to star in my own personal remake of Taken, except instead of Liam Neeson coming to rescue me, it’ll just be Sister Margaret shaking her head and saying “I told you so” in that disappointed voice that makes you feel like you’ve personally let down the entire Catholic Church.
But there’s something about this whole absurd situation that feels like being alive again. Like I’m a character in a story instead of a statistic in a shelter.
“Do not get any ideas about this gangster, Emmaleen,” I tell my reflection sternly. “He’s your money tree, not your sugar daddy.”
But there’s a treacherous part of me that remembers the way he watches me. The way his green eyes follow my movements. The way his voice drops when he gives commands.