Chapter 8 Emmaleen
I exit Giovanni’s loft in what can only be described as a full physical and existential collapse.
The pain radiating from my left arch isn’t just pain—it’s a philosophical argument about poor life choices.
My nerve endings have written a dissertation called “Why You Shouldn’t Trust Men Who Give You Other Women’s Shoes. ”
Every step is a negotiation between dignity and survival.
These heels—these ridiculous, overpriced torture devices—wobble like they’re drunk on their own status.
They’re too big by at least a whole size, which means my feet slide forward with each step, cramming my toes into the pointy hell-tip designed by someone who clearly hates women but loves money.
On top of that, I’m a walking Pantone disaster.
Lemon cardigan. Oatmeal tank. Sage skirt.
Blood-red stilettos. I look like I got dressed by spinning a color wheel and let a sadist pick my footwear.
If “trying too hard while simultaneously not trying at all” were a look, I’d be its reluctant poster child.
“Fuck these shoes. Fuck this day,” I mutter, each word punctuated by the clack-clack-betrayal of the red shoes against the hallway tile. The sound echoes like gunshots in a cathedral. Subtle, I am not.
I catch my reflection in a wall mirror and nearly flinch.
My hair has achieved that special kind of frizz that only comes from stress-sweating while alphabetizing invoices for four hours.
My face is flushed in patches like I’m allergic to humiliation.
My cardigan hangs askew, as if even my clothing is trying to distance itself from my decisions.
And beneath all this—beneath the throbbing feet and wounded pride—lurks a more primal problem: my bladder is staging a revolution.
I have to pee with the urgent desperation of someone who’s been trapped in a six-hour Marvel movie after drinking a Big Gulp.
The kind of have-to-pee where you start calculating distances to the nearest bathroom in terms of “how many seconds before catastrophe.”
I hadn’t dared use Giovanni’s bathroom. The man probably has a toilet that requires retinal scanning and plays the Godfather theme while you wash your hands.
My original plan—the one where I was a functional human with agency—involved stopping at the café across from the restaurant for lunch.
Bathroom. Food. Maybe five minutes where someone wasn’t watching me struggle like a fish in designer quicksand.
That plan now seems as distant and unlikely as my life ever being normal again.
I stare down at my feet like they’re traitors to the revolution. My right pinky toe has gone from “uncomfortable” to “considering legal action.” It throbs with such specific hatred that I wonder if toes can file restraining orders against shoes.
What’s the demerit count for ditching these hellish status symbols? One point for each bare foot? Two for failing to maintain professional appearance? Do I get bonus points if I manage not to pee myself on the way to his mansion?
With a decisive ‘fuck it,’ I kick off both shoes, demerits be damned.” The relief is so immediate and intense it borders on inappropriate.
My bare feet meet the cold tile, instantly collecting the fine grit of hallway dust. Because nothing says “professional assistant” like dirty feet and stolen shoes.
“Perfect,” I mutter, eyeing the security camera tucked into the corner above the stairwell. The red light blinks with judgment, a tiny mechanical eye recording my descent into footwear anarchy.
I square my shoulders, take a breath deep enough to fuel whatever terrible decision comes next, then grab the shoes by their stiletto heels like I’m wielding the world’s most expensive nun chucks. I have no plan, but I’m moving anyway. Because that’s what prey does when the predator is watching.
I push through the door and hit the stairs, clutching the ridiculous red stilettos in one hand and Giovanni’s key fob in the other, possibly the world’s most mismatched set of weapons.
The metal stairs creak beneath my bare feet, each step a little symphony of tetanus waiting to happen. My toes curl instinctively away from the rusty edges and mysterious sticky patches. If my immune system could talk, it would be screaming.
At the bottom of the stairs, I freeze, staring at what can only be described as automotive sociopathy given physical form.
The Lamborghini sits in the empty parking lot like a predator that’s evolved beyond the need for camouflage.
It doesn’t hide, it dares you to look at it.
Matte black with undertones that shift between graphite and gunmetal depending on how the light hits it.
The surface doesn’t reflect so much as it absorbs—light, dignity, financial stability—it’s the aesthetic equivalent of a black hole with wheels.
“Oh good,” I mutter. “I get to drive Satan’s toboggan.”
It’s not a car. It’s a threat shaped like a vehicle. A middle finger to fuel economy and practical transportation. The kind of car that makes environmentalists develop eye twitches and insurance adjusters spontaneously retire.
No normal person should own something this.
.. pointy. The hood stretches forward in sharp, flat planes that look like they were designed specifically to slice through both air resistance and the self-esteem of anyone driving a sensible sedan.
The angles are so aggressive they make geometry seem hostile.
If Darth Vader had a weekend track hobby, he’d drive this. Actually, no—Vader would look at this and think it was trying too hard.
Red brake calipers peek out from behind the black wheels like the sole splash of color in a noir film. War paint. A warning. The automotive equivalent of a venomous creature’s bright markings: Danger. Do not touch. Will cause financial ruin if approached.
The windows are tinted to a darkness that surely exceeds legal limits. Giovanni probably had to bribe someone at the DMV, or more likely, just stared at them until they approved whatever he wanted. I can’t see inside at all—it’s like looking at obsidian.
This vehicle doesn’t share the road with other cars. It tolerates their existence. It looks like it eats Priuses for breakfast and picks its teeth with motorcycle parts.
I approach with the caution of someone nearing an unidentified species. The cracked pavement is rough against my bare feet, tiny pebbles pressing into my arches. Each step reminds me that I’ve descended from “professional assistant” to “shoeless disaster” in record time.
My reflection warps across the door’s surface, stretching and compressing like I’m being digitally altered in real time. Even my reflection looks wrong on this car—too ordinary, too rumpled, too human for something so engineered.
I stand there, key fob in hand, suddenly realizing I have absolutely no idea how to get into this thing.
Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this… becomes my mantra as I start searching for anything resembling a normal door handle. Giovanni didn’t seem to have a problem the other day, but me? Nope. I’m the world’s most clueless mob assistant.
I poke tentatively at what looks like a promising seam. Nothing happens except my fingerprint marring the perfect surface. Great. Now I’ve literally left my mark on his precious car. Add another demerit to the growing collection.
I tap lightly on the glass, as if the car might respond to polite knocking. Unsurprisingly, it remains as unyielding as its owner.
Crouching slightly, I mutter a string of increasingly creative profanities. My bladder sends another urgent telegram to my brain: FIND BATHROOM IMMEDIATELY OR FACE CONSEQUENCES.
Finally, I spot it—a tiny recessed button tucked under the wing mirror like an afterthought. Or more likely, a test. Another one of Giovanni’s little puzzles designed to make me feel stupid.
I press it with my thumb, half-expecting an alarm to sound.
Instead—whoosh—the door launches upward with the hydraulic enthusiasm of a spacecraft airlock, narrowly missing my face.
I stumble backward, nearly dropping both the shoes and my dignity. My heart kicks against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
“For fuck’s sake,” I gasp. “Who needs doors that dramatic? Was a normal hinge too pedestrian?”
The door hovers above me at an angle that feels more like a challenge than an invitation. I eye the opening warily, suddenly very aware that I have no idea how to close it once I’m inside. Or worse, what if it decides to slam shut while I’m climbing in?
I take a deep breath and lean forward, peering into the Lamborghini’s interior like I’m inspecting the mouth of a sedated shark. I was in this thing the other day, obviously, but I was too stunned and in shock to take notice of anything but how my life was imploding.
Now, I can’t stop looking. The leather seats are black—what other color would the Prince of Darkness choose for his chariot?
They look butter-soft and the interior smells like money—that distinct blend of leather, cologne, and privilege that you can’t bottle but instantly recognize.
It’s the olfactory equivalent of someone saying “my summer home” in casual conversation.
Then, I see them. Two leather notebooks placed dead center on the driver’s seat, looking simultaneously innocuous and deeply threatening.
I glance around the empty parking lot. Is this another test?
A trap? Did Giovanni expect me to find these, or am I about to commit some cardinal sin by touching his sacred texts?
Fifty-two thousand dollars, I remind myself. Fifty-two thousand.
For that kind of money, I’d read his grocery lists upside down in Aramaic if he asked.