Chapter 3
3
Ginny
I shift uncomfortably in the oversized armchair, trying not to feel like a kid waiting outside the principal’s office. I wasn’t even the one in trouble yet it felt like I was in line to get the guillotine. The anticipation was killing me.
From just beyond the double doors to my left, I hear voices coming from what must be the kitchen. Two men are talking loudly in what sounds like Italian, clinking metal against metal as they prepare a meal. The smell of garlic, onions, and tomatoes wafts in, making my stomach growl, and I press a hand over it, hoping the two men sitting near me don’t hear it. Despite spending the day at the diner, I couldn’t find time to get a quick meal.
The whole house gives off an air of wealth and power, a world I can’t begin to understand. It’s pristine, if lacking in a certain elegance, the kind of place you don’t want to drag a speck of dirt into. I was unsure if they would let me dare to change up the scenery. But the cooking smells like home, or at least what home would be if we didn’t have to scrounge together all our money to run the diner.
Across from me sit two men, both built like linebackers. The one on the left, I’m almost certain, is the guy who came to see my father at the diner. His hair is cropped close, and he’s wearing a suit that doesn’t quite hide the bulk of his muscles. He’s just been staring at me with an expression that’s almost bored, disinterested. I think his name is Red, but he hasn’t said a word, so I can’t be sure.
If he is, in fact, Red, he’s come to visit my dad at the diner on several occasions. He’s used every ounce of his massive body to intimidate Dad in the past. Every time he leaves, my dad retreats into himself for a few hours, his face pale and his expression worried. I don’t trust this guy, and the fact that he hasn’t taken his eye off me since we arrived is unnerving.
The other one is holding a baseball bat, tapping it against his leg like he’s warming up for his turn at the plate. It’s unsettling, especially when paired with the heavy gold chains around his neck and his vacant, almost glassy expression. He’s wearing a tracksuit that looks like it costs more than my entire wardrobe, and he keeps fidgeting with the bat, rolling it in his hands like he’s itching to use it. If the man staring at me is Red, then this must be “Bats,” a nickname that is apparently well-earned.
Red and Bats are notorious on our side of town. More than a few of our patrons have had run-ins with them and are, allegedly, lucky to still be alive to tell the tale. Sitting here in silence with them is uncomfortable to say the least, so I clear my throat and try to make an effort to be friendly.
“So,” I start, feeling hopelessly awkward and unsure. “This is a nice place. Do you live here too?”
Silence.
“Work here?”
More silence.
“Play baseball here?” I try, looking pointedly at the baseball bat.
Red’s eyes flicker to me, but he doesn’t respond, just keeps his gaze fixed somewhere just over my shoulder. Bats barely acknowledges me, his attention fixed entirely on the bat in his hands, a dreamy sort of detachment on his face.
“Are you big Cubs fans?” I try again, hoping to bring some levity to the situation.
This time, Bats looks up, blinking at me as if I’ve asked him to recite a sonnet. Red gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, like he’s annoyed I’m even trying to make conversation. Not much for talking, I guess. Great.
I’m about to give up when the door opens, and an older man steps in. He’s in his seventies at least, with sharp eyes that hold a kind of weary wisdom. He has an air of authority, and I get the impression he’s seen more than I could imagine.
He just stands at attention near us until my father exits Mr. Rossi’s office and shuts the door behind him.
“The job is yours,” Dad says with a relieved smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
There’s more to the story that he isn’t telling me, and I want to push, but not here where we have an audience. The audience gets a little smaller as the older man goes into Mr. Rossi’s office, but Red is still staring at us, his expression unreadable.
“What do you mean the job is mine?” I whisper harshly. “What is the job, exactly?”
“You’ll discuss it all in detail, I’m sure,” he answers nonchalantly and it frustrates me.
“Miss St. Croix,” a voice says, and I turn to see the older man standing at the office door. “Rex. Please follow me,” he says, gesturing for us to follow him into the office.
I glance at Red and Bats one last time before I stand, feeling strangely relieved to leave the silent men behind. Bats gives me a lazy wave with his bat, like he’s saying goodbye, and Red’s expression doesn’t change at all.
As I follow the older man into the office, I’m suddenly hit with a mix of nerves and anticipation. I’ve never met Mateo Rossi, but everyone knows who he is. He’s the man running the Rossi empire, the one whose reputation is whispered about behind closed doors. I don’t know who I expect to see, but from past knowledge I was hoping it was as good as I heard. Walking through the door dissipated all the stress from my body and my mind went blank. The rumors did not do him justice.
Mateo Rossi is not what I expected. He’s tall, lean, with a presence that dominates the space without him even trying. His suit is perfectly tailored, his dark hair swept back in a way that manages to look effortless yet meticulous. His face is striking, equipped with equally stunning dark eyes and fresh stubble giving gravity to his maturity. Handsome, yes, but there’s a hardness to his features, a sharpness in his gaze that makes it clear he didn’t just inherit his position. He’s earned it.
Then he looks at me, it’s not with the look of someone who’s interested in hiring a designer. There’s an intensity in his eyes that makes my pulse quicken.
“Mr. Rossi,” my father says, his voice nervous as he glances between us. “This is my daughter, Ginny. As I mentioned, she’s an interior designer. She can help you with your… renovations.”
I don’t like the way my father pauses, the way he seems to be speaking to Mr. Rossi in code. It furthers my suspicion that there’s more happening here than a simple job.
Mr. Rossi’s gaze shifts from my father to me, and I feel pinned under the weight of it. It’s like he’s assessing me, stripping away every layer with just one look. I swallow, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag.
The silence stretches on. Unease quickly makes it way back into my body, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s just going to dismiss me, wave me away like an inconvenience. But instead, he gives a small nod and speaks, his voice low and even. “So, you’re Rex’s daughter.”
I nod, struggling to keep my voice steady.
“I am,” I answer in a small voice. “His youngest. I have an older sister who runs a diner and—”
Dad coughs and elbows me gently. I realize I’m rambling, and I immediately close my mouth, feeling embarrassed.
He gestures to the room, his expression unreadable. “What would you do with this space?” he asks pointedly.
For a moment, I’m taken off guard. I glance around the room, taking in the impersonal décor, the lifeless furniture, the stark white walls. It’s all cold, efficient, like someone picked items out of a catalog without any real thought. It’s a beautiful space, but it lacks warmth, personality. I almost hesitate to say anything, but then I remind myself that this is my chance. If I want this, if I want to be taken seriously, I can’t hold back.
I take a breath, gathering my thoughts. “This room is beautiful, Mr. Rossi, but it feels empty,” I say as confidently as I can muster. “Lifeless. It’s too sterile, too impersonal. I’d add texture, maybe some darker wood finishes to bring out the natural light. Some statement pieces, maybe, that have a story or meaning. The space needs warmth, something that feels lived-in, rather than just staged to show power.”
I glance back at him, expecting some kind of reaction. Instead, Mr. Rossi just watches me, his expression unreadable. The silence stretches on, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped, if I’ve somehow insulted him without meaning to.
Beside me, I can see my father slightly slumped, like he’s afraid.
But then, Mr. Rossi’s lips curve into the slightest hint of a smile. “Are you always so blunt?” he asks with some mirth in his voice.
I feel my cheeks flush, but I meet his gaze, refusing to look away. “Are all your properties this boring?” I shoot back, internally kicking myself as soon as the words leave my mouth. I had a death wish apparently.
There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes, and then he laughs, a low, rich sound that somehow manages to send a shiver down my spine. Next to me, my father’s face pales, his eyes widening in alarm.
Mr. Rossi holds my gaze, his smile fading, replaced by something more intense, more focused. “You’re not what I expected, Miss St. Croix.”
I tilt my head slightly, trying to keep my tone steady. “What were you expecting?” I wonder aloud, matching his posture.
His smile returns, with unabashed amusement. “I suppose I didn’t expect you to be so outspoken,” he admits. “Do you speak to all of your clients this way?”
My face flushes and I have a split second to consider my answer. Truthfully, I haven’t had many clients.
“I like for my clients to know where we stand,” I finally manage, toeing the line of honesty. “If we’re going to work together, I think it’s important that we understand and trust each other. Otherwise, it would never work.”
I glance at my dad, who looks like he’s about to pass out. His face is pale, his hands twisting nervously as he watches this exchange. I can see the warning in his eyes, telling me to be careful, to tread lightly.
But Mr. Rossi’s gaze holds me, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking a fine line between intrigue and danger. Part of me knows I should be more careful, that I should defer, keep my head down. But the other part of me, the part that’s desperate for a chance, for something more than scraping by, for a way to escape the suffocating weight of my father’s debts, won’t let me back down.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mr. Rossi says, his grin growing wider by the moment. “And if we are going to be working so closely together, I think it’s only right that you call me Mateo.”
“In that case, Mateo,” I say, though his name feels almost forbidden on my tongue, “I suppose you can just call me Ginny.”