Chapter 9 Giovanni #2
“All that, just to fail the pre-flight check. Fantastic.” Her voice carries a mixture of self-deprecation and genuine frustration that’s oddly compelling. Not the practiced helplessness most women would deploy, but authentic annoyance at her own limitations.
I watch as she pulls out her phone and starts typing with quick, decisive movements. Zooming in on her screen reveals the search query: “How to start a Lamborghini Aventador.”
Predictable. But at least she’s resourceful. There’s something refreshing about watching someone approach a problem methodically instead of giving up.
A video loads. One minute of instructions that she watches six times, concentrating with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.
Her cheeks are flushed pink now, her brow shiny with sweat, a single strand of hair stuck to her temple.
She tucks it behind her ear with an unconscious gesture that somehow seems more intimate through the camera than it should.
She bites her lower lip—not the practiced, seductive gesture women sometimes employ to appear vulnerable.
This is pure, unfiltered frustration.
I rewatch that moment. Something about the authenticity of it catches my attention. There’s no performance in it, no calculation. Just a woman at the end of her patience, trying to complete an impossible task I’ve deliberately set before her.
The honesty in her frustration is strangely compelling—a genuine reaction in a world where I’m surrounded by people who only show me what they think I want to see.
Emmaleen presses her right foot firmly on the brake pedal.
Eyes darting between the dashboard and her phone screen, she’s muttering something I can’t quite make out.
Her lips move in a frantic pattern—prayer, profanity, or perhaps rehearsal.
Like a student cramming final instructions before an exam she knows she’ll fail.
The tension in her shoulders is visible even through the security feed, her entire body coiled tight with concentration.
Her free hand hovers over the center console, fingers trembling slightly. Not just trembling—vibrating with a nervous energy that betrays how far outside her comfort zone she’s wandered.
Little Miss Take, facing down the beast.
I lean forward, oddly invested in this moment. The leather of the couch creaks beneath me as I adjust my position, eyes fixed on my laptop monitor, unable to look away.
She finds the red flip cover—the one that protects the engine start button from accidental engagement. A safety feature that, at this moment, feels more like another barrier designed specifically to humiliate her. Her fingertips brush it tentatively, as though it might burn her.
She hesitates. Looks back at her phone. Double-checks the tutorial with painful precision, scrolling slightly, brow furrowed in concentration. Then flips the cover up with a decisive little motion that seems to require all her courage.
Another pause. The camera catches her swallow—a tight, nervous motion that travels visibly down her throat. I find myself tracking it, noting the vulnerability of that exposed skin, the pulse point visible and alluring.
Her index finger extends toward the button.
Hovers. Descends. And the Aventador’s V12 erupts to life with a predatory growl that vibrates through the entire cabin.
The sound is visceral, animal—600 horsepower announcing itself with no apology.
Even through the tinny audio of the laptop, the engine’s roar commands respect, a mechanical beast awakening at her fingertips.
She physically jumps in the seat, her whole body jerking backward as if the car might launch itself into space. Her hands fly up momentarily, instinctively, before returning to the wheel and gripping it with white-knuckled intensity.
Then—she laughs.
It’s not calculated or controlled. It’s pure nervous relief, a sound that escapes rather than one that’s released.
Her entire face transforms, tension dissolving into a smile that spreads wide across her features, reaching her eyes in a way that seems to surprise even her.
The freckles across her nose scrunch together, and for a moment, she looks younger, unburdened by whatever weight she normally carries.
The smile is real. Reflexive. Too wide to be anything but genuine. It changes her completely—from the guarded, alert woman who dropped a thousand dollars’ worth of crystal three days ago into someone else entirely. Someone I haven’t met before.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, she flattens it—pressing her lips together as if the expression had betrayed her somehow.
As if allowing herself that moment of joy was a tactical error she needed to correct immediately.
Her face resumes its careful mask, but the ghost of that smile lingers in her eyes.
I don’t laugh. But something shifts in my assessment. Something fundamental about how I’ve categorized her in my mental taxonomy.
I press pause on the feed. My finger hovers over the keyboard longer than necessary.
Rewind.
The engine ignites. She jumps. She smiles.
I slow the playback. Frame by frame. The security system isn’t designed for this level of scrutiny, but I adjust the settings anyway, slowing it down to study her reactions.
There’s something in that unguarded moment—that split second before she remembered who she was supposed to be. Before she remembered where she was, who she was dealing with, what was at stake. A glimpse behind the curtain of her carefully constructed defenses.
I watch it again.
That smile she tried to erase.
The one that transformed her entire face from wariness to something almost childlike in its unfiltered delight. The way her eyes crinkled at the corners, how her shoulders dropped their perpetual guardedness for just that instant. How different she looked when not bracing for impact.
I lean back into the couch cushions, tapping one finger against the leather armrest. The corner of my mouth lifts, just barely—an involuntary response I don’t bother to correct since there’s no one here to witness it.
The apartment is silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator.
But my mind is anything but quiet.
It’s racing faster than the Lambo on the autobahn.
God, when was the last time something this trivial occupied my thoughts so completely?
I switch back to the live feed. The engine’s purr fills my apartment as Emmaleen sits frozen in the driver’s seat of the Aventador, her fingers gripping the steering wheel like it’s her lifeline.
Clearly, she’s overwhelmed by Italian engineering that refuses to accommodate the uninitiated, and it shows in the way her eyes dart around the sleek, high-tech interior.
“Modalità di guida: Strada. Sistema attivato,” announces the car in its crisp, authoritative Italian accent, as if it knows it’s more sophisticated than most humans could ever hope to be.
She blinks rapidly, her forehead creasing in confusion. “What the hell is strada? Is that... street? Am I in street mode?” Her voice wavers, a mix of frustration and bewilderment, and it’s all I can do not to chuckle.
I reach for the volume control, turning it up slightly to catch every nuance of her reaction. Her confusion is oddly satisfying—like watching someone try to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. It’s a rare kind of entertainment, one that appeals to my sense of control and command.
The navigation system activates next, exactly as I programmed it this morning, its voice calm and unyielding. “Benvenuto. Percorso impostato. Arrivo stimato: cinque minuti. Procedi fino all’uscita. Proseguire dritto per cinquecento metri.”
Her eyes widen as she stares at the screen, her lips parting in a soft gasp. “I didn’t even tell it where I’m going.” A pause, then quieter, almost to herself: “Is this how kidnappings start?”
I tap my fingers against the armrest, a slow, deliberate rhythm. Not kidnapping, Little Miss Take. Just control. A lesson in submission to a system larger than oneself, a system that bends to my will.
The dashboard lights up again with more warnings, a symphony of alerts designed to unsettle the inexperienced. “Attenzione: pressione pneumatici irregolare. Modalità: Corsa attivata.” The engine’s growl deepens, becoming more aggressive, more insistent.
“WHAT DID I DO? NO. NO. We’re not doing race mode. I can’t even merge!” Her voice rises an octave, panic threading through her words like a wire pulled too tight.
“Sistema di trazione temporaneamente disabilitato. Ricalcolo del percorso.” The navigation screen flickers between routes up to my house, recalculating with relentless precision.
“Stop recalculating, I haven’t gone anywhere!” Her frustration peaks, her voice teetering on the edge of hysteria.
“Ostacolo rilevato a distanza ravvicinata.”
She throws her hands up in exasperation. “Stop beeping at me! There are no obstacles around the car, just... reality!” Her frustration is palpable, a raw, unfiltered reaction to a situation spiraling out of her control.
“Freno di stazionamento attivato.”
I find myself smiling. Actually smiling.
The kind that reaches my eyes—a rare occurrence that would alarm anyone who knows me well.
Her chaos is oddly... refreshing. The Lamborghini—a machine designed for precision and control—meeting someone who can’t be controlled through intimidation alone.
It’s an unexpected twist, and I savor it.
She’s panicking now, slapping at the center console like it’s personally insulted her. Her hand hits the seat warmer button, then the radio. A thundering club track explodes through the cabin, bass vibrating the camera feed, adding another layer of chaos to the scene.
“Shut up. Everyone shut up!” She smacks the dashboard with an open palm, finally finding the mute button. Silence falls, a stark contrast to the cacophony that preceded it.
Then she does something unexpected. She leans forward, addressing the car directly.
“Look, Car. I understand that you’re better than me and I don’t deserve to drive you, but this is an assignment.
I need to succeed. So if you could just..
.” She stops, deflates. The fight drains from her posture, leaving her looking small and vulnerable. “Never mind,” she mutters.
I lean closer to the screen, rewinding the footage. I watch her say it again—those two words. “Never mind.”
But it’s what she doesn’t say that captures my attention. The resignation. The calculation. The regrouping. She doesn’t break. She adapts, even in the face of overwhelming odds.
I mute the feed. Not because I’m bored. Not because I’ve seen enough. I mute it because the audio has become a distraction from what I need to observe. The noise, the panic, the chaos—those were expected. Entertaining, even. But this silent moment is different.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg. She didn’t shatter. She stopped herself. And I don’t know why.
That uncertainty shifts her classification in my mind. From distraction to... something requiring closer study.
Not for what she says, but for what she deliberately holds back.
In that silence, I see a flicker of resilience, a spark of something unbroken.
And that, more than anything, makes her desirable.