Chapter 12 Emmaleen
Twenty minutes. Twenty whole minutes to transform from Cinderella-pre-makeover to Cinderella-post-makeover, minus the helpful singing mice and plus a sociopathic mob boss waiting downstairs.
Totally doable. Absolutely fine. Not a problem at all.
Nineteen minutes now.
I’ve never undressed so fast in my life. My thrift store outfit hits the marble floor with the dignity of a dropped napkin. Hair elastic goes flying, and I’m practically diving into the shower before the water’s even warm.
Cold! Cold cold cold—and then suddenly perfect. Like being baptized in liquid silk.
The shelf of products looks like the fancy section of Sephora, the part I always avoided because making eye contact with those bottles felt like making eye contact with people who summer in the Hamptons. I grab a shampoo bottle that probably costs more than my last electric bill.
“Infused with Moroccan argan oil and harvested by virgins under a full moon,” I mutter, squeezing a dollop into my palm. “For the discerning criminal who appreciates ethical sourcing.”
The scent hits me—something woodsy and citrus and expensive—and for a second I just stand there, transported. I haven’t smelled anything this good since... I can’t even remember. The shelter soap smells like industrial-strength sadness.
Seventeen minutes.
Conditioner. Rinse. Some leave-in treatment that promises to repair split ends and probably your credit score too.
I grab a body wash that looks like it was personally blessed by Gwyneth Paltrow and lather up. It smells like what rich people think forests smell like—not actual forests, but the idea of forests, curated and bottled and sold for eighty dollars an ounce.
And then—glory of glories—a brand new razor. Not the disposable kind that feels like shaving with a rusty butter knife. This is the Mercedes-Benz of razors, with more lubricant strips than I’ve had decent meals this month.
I attack my legs with the enthusiasm of someone who hasn’t had the luxury of smooth skin in weeks. The shelter’s communal shower situation means quick in-and-outs, not spa days.
And then, in a moment of what can only be described as temporary insanity, I find myself tidying up... other areas.
“What are you doing?” I hiss at myself, horrified. “Planning to seduce the mob boss? Great strategy, Em. Very original. Never been done before except in literally every bad romance novel ever written.”
But I finish anyway because, well, it’s been a while since I’ve felt human, let alone feminine, and there’s something deeply satisfying about reclaiming this small bit of dignity. Even if nobody sees it. Especially if nobody sees it.
Fifteen minutes left.
I step out onto a bath mat so plush I consider asking if it’s looking for a roommate. Wrap myself in a towel that feels like it was woven from clouds and the dreams of angels.
For a moment—just a breath—I allow myself to enjoy this. Hot water. Clean skin. The absence of other women’s hair in the drain. The silence. God, the silence. No snoring roommate, no crying children down the hall, no Sister Margaret’s sensible shoes squeaking past my door at 5 a.m.
Then reality crashes back in. I’m in Giovanni Bavga’s house. I’ve agreed to go to Pittsburgh with him. I’ve signed a contract I don’t fully understand. I’m standing in his guest bathroom with thirteen demerits hanging over my head like the world’s most passive-aggressive sword of Damocles.
And I’m... excited?
That can’t be right. I should be terrified.
I should be plotting my escape. I should be wondering if I’m about to star in my own personal remake of Taken, except instead of Liam Neeson coming to rescue me, it’ll just be Sister Margaret shaking her head and saying “I told you so” in that disappointed voice that makes you feel like you’ve personally let down the entire Catholic Church.
But there’s something about this whole absurd situation that feels like being alive again. Like I’m a character in a story instead of a statistic in a shelter.
“Do not get any ideas about this gangster, Emmaleen,” I tell my reflection sternly. “He’s your money tree, not your sugar daddy.”
But there’s a treacherous part of me that remembers the way he watches me. The way his green eyes follow my movements. The way his voice drops when he gives commands.
His interest is just this side of pathological to be sexy. It dances on that razor-thin edge between intense attraction and something darker, more obsessive. The way his gaze lingers too long, cataloging my every movement—it should trigger warning signals.
It does, but those warnings tangle with something that flushes my skin and catches my breath.
Being the focus of such attention from him is dangerously alluring. He studies me like a puzzle he’s determined to solve.
This interest makes me feel both exposed and powerful—prey yet precious. It’s not normal attraction but something different, whispering of possession.
Yet I can’t deny the electricity when those green eyes narrow, watching me like I’m all that matters.
Despite the demerits, mind games, and Giovanni probably killing people—I still feel that tiny thrill of anticipation.
Because let’s be honest: driving that Lamborghini was fucking amazing.
I took the world’s quickest ‘Learn-to-Drive-a-Lambo’ class and actually did it.
I drove a fucking Lamborghini, and it was…
orgasmic, now that I think about it. The power under my fingertips, the way it responded to the slightest touch, the looks on people’s faces as I drove past. For twelve minutes, I wasn’t homeless, jobless Emmaleen.
I was… the chick in the Lambo.
“Focus, Emmaleen. And don’t get used to any of this. One week,” I remind myself. “One fucking week and you get to blow this town as your life catapults into a new stratosphere.”
Thirteen minutes.
All these weeks of forced two-minute showers have paid off in dividends. I’ve got this whole “efficient personal hygiene” thing down to a military operation. Hair, body, face—bam, bam, bam. No time for existential crises under the spray. Save those for when you’re fully clothed.
I step into the attic bedroom wrapped in the world’s most luxurious towel, and—holy exposure, Batman. It’s a fishbowl. A lighthouse. Gorgeous. I don’t even care that anyone in town with a pair of binoculars can look in.
There’s a metal casing on the top of each window—custom black-out blinds, I guess. But right now, the blinds are up, and the entire town of Riverview could be watching me do my towel dance. Hello, citizens! Enjoy the show! Today’s performance: “Homeless Girl Pretends She Belongs Here.”
The bed is oddly a twin, which makes absolutely no sense in this palatial fish tank of a room.
What the hell? It’s like putting bicycle wheels on a Ferrari—a jarring mismatch that makes me wonder if this is some kind of weird power play.
The frame is gorgeous, all dark wood and intricate carvings, but the mattress itself is narrow, barely wider than a college dorm bed.
In a room with enough square footage to host a small wedding reception, the bed looks like an afterthought, or worse—a deliberate choice to remind me of my place in this mansion.
Is this Giovanni’s subtle way of ensuring I don’t get too comfortable?
Or maybe it’s just another test, another way to see how I’ll react without saying a word.
Eleven minutes.
The closet looks like a retail showroom that had an affair with an Apple Store.
Every surface is pristine white or glass.
The hanging rods are illuminated from within, casting a soft glow on.
.. nothing. The closet is empty except for seven garment bags hanging in military precision.
A rainbow of future humiliation: white, black, pink, peach, gray, red, and light green.
The shoe wall is an open grid of possibility—each cubby waiting to imprison some poor woman’s foot in torturous beauty. There’s a central island with a marble top and the drawers have those fancy no-handle fronts that you push to open.
I’m afraid to touch anything. I carefully—so carefully—lift the white garment bag from its hook.
The bag itself is a flex: matte white perfection with a custom-stitched leather handle that probably required the sacrifice of a virgin calf raised on organic milk and Mozart.
The zipper is industrial-grade, running the full length of the bag, and the whole thing has a weight to it that whispers “expensive” in that way only truly expensive things can.
Back in the bedroom (where at least the carpet will catch my inevitable stress sweat), I lay the garment bag on the bed and unzip it with the reverence of an archaeologist unsealing a pharaoh’s tomb.
“Let’s see what Giovanni thinks is appropriate for ‘Take Your Assistant to Crime Family Dinner’ night,” I mutter.
First up: a white cotton blouse so crisp it could cut glass. The sleeves are tucked behind with precision that suggests either military training or obsessive-compulsive disorder. Probably both, in Giovanni’s case.
“Very Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct meets Mormon missionary,” I whisper, lifting it gingerly.
Clipped to the same hanger with padded clamps—because heaven forbid fabric touches fabric—is a high-waisted pencil skirt. White. Of course it’s white. Because nothing says “I make good life choices” like wearing white to dinner with the mob.
“Perfect for highlighting bloodstains and marinara sauce,” I note, already imagining the inevitable disaster.
Behind the main hanger is a lingerie insert that makes me stop short. A nude lace bra with sheer detailing that’s somehow both tasteful and suggestive, and matching thong panties folded into a white mesh envelope like they’re classified documents.
“Did he... measure me in my sleep?” I wonder aloud, holding the bra against my chest. It looks exactly my size. This is either impressive or terrifying. Possibly both.