Chapter Two, IOU #2
The study was pristine, almost unnervingly so.
One wall was lined with a bookshelf, the books in neat rows with military precision.
The desk itself was sleek and modern, something that would have come right out of those high-end catalogues, as was the lounge.
A massive faux fur rug covered the ground, another fake plant sat in the corner.
Everything about it screamed efficiency—clean lines, nothing out of place, no chaos.
It was so fucking weird. Wholly devoid of life. Fuck, even my office had more life to it. And my office was the stolen car I lived in. I had a cactus, a rosary stained with blood, and a pile of weapons hidden under the cushion. All homey things.
Emilio had nothing beyond his kitty that still wouldn’t make an appearance to let me pet it.
It was silence, dark thoughts, and my efficiency that kept me company as I debated where best to start in the next step of my mission. One so important that I needed to hurry and not waste the time on sights around me, looking at décor that had been picked out of an Ikea showroom without a care.
I began with the drawers, pulling them open one by one with a cautious tug. The first drawer exposed a row or two of pens, all perfectly aligned, a stapler that looked as though it had never been used, and a small notebook bound in leather.
I turned the notebook’s pages, my fingers tracing the cool paper. There were notes, in tight, scrawly handwriting—reminders about meetings and invoices, deadlines. Nothing personal. Nothing interesting.
The second drawer was more promising. Tucked into the corner, I found a stack of unopened mail, the envelopes pristine except for the faint crease at the top where they’d been shoved into place. I flipped through the pile, my fingers dancing over them as my eyes scanned the return addresses.
Bills. Junk. A flyer for a charity gala for the Gomez Trust For Women. Yet another thing that I didn’t see being here.
A mafia don who cared about women beyond the orgasms they could give him? Odd. Really odd.
Odder than his wall of framed photos of his gorgeous gray kitty that was clearly invisible.
I almost discarded the pile until something turned my attention to it.
A letter with the logo of one of the local animal shelters stood out.
This one was bigger than the other letters, thus heavier in my hand.
I lingered for one moment, indecisive whether to open it.
Until the thought quickly jettisoned. Emilio’s philanthropy—or lack of it—wasn’t my business here.
Who cared if I enjoyed donating money to the same charity? At least, I had enjoyed it when I had money. Not when I counted change that people dropped into the sides of their cars I stole.
Taking a seat in the cushy office chair, I pushed the envelope back into its place and tucked the drawer in with a soft click. My patience was wearing really thin, and with every second passing, tension inside me coiled tighter within my chest.
I was starving and running on about three hours of sleep. I had no patience left inside me to rummage around for nothing. If anything, I was debating the merits of setting fire to Emilio’s apartment, just for something to lighten up my day.
He was lucky his cat was hiding, and I refused to BBQ it.
The third drawer held little more than office supplies and a crumpled receipt from a local grocery store.
I scanned the list out of habit—pasta, marinara sauce, coffee—but it told me nothing useful.
Not unless I wanted to ruin Emilio’s relationship with his mother and let her know he was an Italian man who used jar sauce.
It was true psychological warfare, but I wasn’t here to ruin his life.
I was just here to use him to get what I wanted.
I still debated it. Only for a second before I shoved the drawer shut with more force than necessary, the sound a little too harsh considering I was committing a felony.
I froze, my eyes darting to the door, waiting for anything I needed to sort out.
The apartment remained silent. No footsteps. No voices. Just the relentless pounding of my heartbeat as it chanted its usual niceties to me.
You’re pointless.
You should kill yourself and be done with it.
You should die like your brother clearly wanted. That was why he left you.
God damn, my heart was in a bitchy mood today.
Must’ve been the hunger. I knew it wasn’t my period.
I didn’t get them, but once in a blue moon; one of the few positives about having PCOS.
No monthly pain for me except in my head and the bitter sting of the tattoo that had been branded onto my wrist when I was a child.
Yeah, had to be the food. I needed a snack and a nap. That would fix me.
That would fix everything.
I spun my chair around, leaning forward to lay my hands flat against the desk as I let out a slow, careful breath and shut off my brain.
This wasn’t the first dead end I’d hit, and it wasn’t going to be the last. It wasn’t the first time I’d been hungry or tired.
It would all pass, and I would remember how to be an adult.
A real adult that got shit dealt with and murdered her enemies without a care.
My eyes drifted across the desktop, catching on a small stack of papers tucked beneath a leather organizer. Huffing slightly at myself, I flipped through them quickly—bank statements, invoices, contracts. Boring, mundane, entirely unhelpful unless I wanted to steal Emilio’s identity.
I’d grown enough facial hair thanks to my condition that if I stopped waxing, I figured I could pull off a beard.
But not so much the bald head. I was a little attached to my ass-length black hair.
It was the only thing I’d ever chosen for myself, and it was staying until I died in a flaming pile of karma and hell I was owed.
A flicker of frustration coursed through my veins.
The edges of the papers crinkled slightly under my grip, and I forced myself to loosen my hold before I crumpled them completely.
Emilio’s life was too neat, too controlled.
No loose threads to pull, no cracks to slip through.
He was hiding everything I wanted to know because he was a fucking freak that liked to be neat.
I liked freaks. Just not when I wanted something from them other than an orgasm.
I pushed back from the desk, letting my dark gaze sweep the room.
My eyes landed on the bookshelf next. Most of the rows of books were predictable—books about finance, memoirs of dead white dudes that hoarded money.
A handful of hardbacks about America pretending it was great and not built on genocide.
Or history, I guessed they were called. But one stood out, its spine worn and faded compared to the others.
Like he actually read it. Maybe more than once.
I hurried to my feet and tugged it off the shelf, snorting loudly at the title. An Italian cookbook. Page after page filled with recipes marked and dog-eared, their corners sticky noted. Each had comments scrawled in the same script as his other notes. ‘Needs more salt.’ ‘Try with fresh basil’.
A bitter smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I slid the book back into place. Emilio’s attempts at cooking were irrelevant, but the detail lingered in my mind. He wasn’t what I’d expected. Not entirely, at least. And as much as it annoyed me to be wrong, I had to admit it was exciting.
A mark that was unpredictable was far more fun. And honestly? I needed some fun. I hadn’t had any in a while. Not since I’d died in a fire and body-filled evening a few weeks ago.
Not since I’d vanished from my life and became nothing but a bitter memory and a hot piece of ghostly ass that only a blue-haired stripper cared enough to miss.
Heaven had texted my burner phone a dozen times since I’d died. Mostly nonsense. Often pictures. Nothing but noise about her life that, whilst mostly ridiculous, I ate up because at least it was something.
At least it allowed me to see how my brother was doing through his doe-eyed girlfriend that I debated stealing, just to teach him a lesson.
A soft hum, like that of an elevator, cut through the silence and sent my body into a jolt. I whirled to the door, my ears strained for any hint of movement. The sound of the elevator doors opening reached me next, followed by the faint tread of footsteps.
I moved quickly, stepping into the shadowed corner of the room where the bookshelf cast a dark protective line against the wall. My breaths came slow and measured, my muscles tense as I listened and pulled my switchblade from my worn leather jacket into my hand.
The footsteps grew louder for a moment, then faded again, swallowed by the quiet.
The tension in my chest eased, but only slightly. I stepped out of the shadows, my movements careful. Emilio wasn’t home—yet. But the thought of being caught in this room lingered like a challenge, sharpening my focus.
I returned to the desk, determined to find something—anything—before I left.
I had no clue how long the time was since my fingers grazed over the edge of that leather organizer until, this time, I really pulled the lot of papers loose. Most of it was the same mundane nonsense that I had previously seen, except something near the bottom caught my attention.
An invitation. Black and gold (tacky), the embossed lettering shimmered faintly in the dim light. My pulse quickened as I read the words.