Chapter 10 Emmaleen
Oh. My. God. I did it. I actually did it. Achievement unlocked: Operated Satan’s Sports Car without Bursting into Flames.
The engine purrs beneath me like some exotic mechanical panther. I’m basically sitting inside Giovanni Bavga’s wallet, and it smells like leather, money, and the collective dreams of middle-aged men going through divorce.
I adjust the mirrors. All of them. None of them help.
The seat is next, and it’s like trying to find a comfortable position in a NASA launch module. Too far back and I’m practically in the trunk. Too far forward and my knees are having an intimate conversation with the steering column.
My knees bang against something hard and unforgiving under the steering wheel. Jesus, how does he even fit in here? He’s like six-foot-whatever of Italian intimidation, and this car is built for hobbits with trust funds.
And suddenly I’m thinking about Giovanni. Not just thinking—picturing him. Folded into this ridiculous car like some elegant origami of rage. His long fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, those green eyes focused on the road, that jaw clenched in concentration—
“Snap OUT of it, Emmaleen.” I physically shake my head like I’m an Etch A Sketch that needs clearing. This is your BOSS. The man who’s actively torturing you with red stilettos and standing desks. Get it together.”
I grab my phone and hit play on “How to Drive a Lamborghini Aventador for Complete Idiots” for the seventeenth time. The chipper YouTuber with suspiciously white teeth reminds me about the paddle shifters. Right paddle, upshift. Left paddle, downshift. Don’t crash. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
I place my fingers on the right paddle shifter like I’m about to perform heart surgery. One click, and the car lurches forward with all the subtlety of a caffeine-addicted kangaroo.
“Holy—” I flinch so hard I nearly headbutt the windshield. But underneath the terror is something else. A tiny thrill. A microscopic spark of I’m driving a Lamborghini.
My eyes dart to the passenger seat where those two black notebooks sit like judges at a talent show I didn’t sign up for. One written in elegant Italian that might as well be hieroglyphics spelling out my doom. The other in crystal-clear English, promising financial salvation.
One week. $31,750. The price tag of my dignity, apparently.
How hard could it be?
Just don’t touch anything.
Don’t break anything.
Don’t breathe wrong.
Don’t exist incorrectly.
Just be perfect according to the undefined, constantly shifting standards of a man who makes Machiavelli look like a life coach.
I got this.
Here goes nothing.
I press down on the accelerator—
“Cheese and Rice on a pogo stick!” The car lunges forward like it’s been cattle-prodded, sending me slamming back into Italian leather. Trash cans along the alley wall rattle like they’re auditioning for a percussion ensemble.
“SORRY. Holy shit! SORRY.” I’m apologizing to inanimate objects now. Fantastic. The sensors are screaming at me in what I assume is car for “you absolute amateur.”
This is fine. Everything is fine. I just need to back up. Simple. Basic. Driving 101.
I locate the “R” button on the console and stab at it with the urgency of someone trying to deactivate a bomb with three seconds left on the timer. It clicks with an air of superiority, like it’s judging my life choices. Which, fair.
The car rolls back a few inches, and suddenly every sensor in this technological nightmare is having a collective panic attack. Beeps, chimes, and what sounds like Italian profanity blast from the speakers.
A screen flickers to life, showing what I assume is supposed to be the view behind me, except it’s warped like I’m looking through a fishbowl filled with vodka. Everything is distorted, bloated, and vaguely threatening.
Great. High-def footage of my impending death. At least the obituary photos will be crisp.
The dashboard is now essentially a Christmas tree of warning lights. Red, yellow, flashing, steady—it’s like Times Square had a baby with a nuclear launch sequence. The parking sensors are screaming at a pitch that could shatter diamonds.
“Stop yelling at me, car! I’m doing my best!” My knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and I’m sweating through my tank top. “We’re all having a bad day here!”
I finally manage to maneuver this mechanical nightmare through the parking lot, feeling like I’ve just successfully performed open-heart surgery while blindfolded.
My hands are trembling slightly against the leather steering wheel, slick with nervous sweat.
Every inch forward feels like a victory against physics and common sense.
The car—this gleaming, snarling beast of engineered perfection—responds to my tentative touches with the temperamental attitude of a thoroughbred horse that’s been saddled by a complete novice.
The sensors continue their anxious symphony as I narrowly avoid scraping against a concrete planter.
A passing pedestrian stops to stare, mouth slightly agape at the spectacle of me—disheveled, wild-eyed, clearly out of my element—piloting this mechanical masterpiece with all the grace of a toddler trying to thread a needle.
I can practically feel Giovanni’s presence hovering over my shoulder, cataloging each jerky movement and hesitation for his little demerit notebook.
When I finally clear the last obstacle and merge onto the actual street, I breathe, my lungs burning with relief. The dashboard gradually stops its light show of warnings, apparently deciding I’m no longer an immediate threat to its wellbeing or resale value.
And there she is. Marge Whitaker. Standing outside Sweet Dreams Bakery like some disappointed fairy tale witch, watching me with those beady little eyes that probably turn children into gingerbread.
My former boss. The woman who fired me on Saturday for a wedding cake disaster that wasn’t even my fault.
Something petty and warm blooms in my chest.
Look at me now, Marge. Driving a Lamborghini while you’re still dusting powdered sugar off your apron. The universe has a sense of humor after all.
I’m going to finish this week.
I’m going to collect my $31,750.
And then I’m going to ghost this entire miserable town. Maybe Florida. Or California. Somewhere people don’t know my name or my failures or—
The car jerks violently as I pull away, engine screaming and spitting like we’re at the start of a drag race. I catch Marge’s reflection in the rearview mirror, her face splitting into a nasty little smirk.
So much for my dignified exit.
I ease down Main Street, the Lamborghini purring beneath me as we glide past the Feed it just keeps purring, almost disappointed at the lack of challenge.
It’s only when I hit the straightaway that I realize I’ve been clenching my jaw so hard my teeth might have fused together. My shoulders have migrated somewhere near my ears. My right foot is cramping from hovering nervously over the brake pedal.
But I’m moving. The car hasn’t wrapped itself around a telephone pole. No smoke billows from under the hood. The engine hasn’t exploded in a cinematic fireball that would make Michael Bay weep with joy.
I got this.
Probably.