Chapter 12 Emmaleen #2
The bottom of the bag has a zipped pouch containing—what else?—nude Louboutins. Each shoe is individually wrapped to prevent scuffing, because God forbid these $1,000 foot-torture devices get a scratch. At least they’re not red this time. Progress?
Tucked into the blouse sleeve is a small white velvet drawstring pouch. Inside: a thin gold chain necklace so delicate it’s barely visible, diamond stud earrings that whisper “expensive” rather than scream it, and—thoughtfully—backup earring backs.
“The Giovanni Bavga Starter Kit: How to Look Like You’ve Never Had a Thought of Your Own,” I narrate to myself.
In a side pocket, I find a ziplock pouch with makeup instructions in Giovanni’s handwriting: “Matte finish only. No gloss. Keep lips neutral. Do not use shimmer.”
“Thanks for the creative freedom, Project Runway,” I snort, examining the contents: blotting papers, a compact, and a brand-new rose matte lipstick still in its box.
Laid flat at the base of the bag is a white leather clutch with no strap—because apparently Giovanni thinks women never need their hands free.
The interior is already loaded with his corporate card, a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill, a backup lipstick, a tampon (at least he acknowledges basic biology), Advil, and a mint.
“The perfect accessory for the woman who has no identity of her own,” I mutter, snapping it closed.
And then, the pièce de résistance: a Post-it note inside the bag flap, in Giovanni’s handwriting: “Don’t embarrass me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Your Majesty,” I say to the empty room.
This isn’t just an outfit. It’s a complete aesthetic takeover from the skin out. Giovanni’s vision of controlled feminine professionalism, heavy on the controlled. The only thing missing is a remote that allows him to operate my facial expressions.
Nine minutes left.
No problem. I’ve got this. I’ll just transform into Giovanni’s White Vision Barbie and pretend I don’t have a brain, personality, or dignity left to surrender.
The perfect crime family accessory, coming right up.
I slip into the clothes with mechanical precision, each item feeling like another layer of armor rather than fabric.
The starched-cotton blouse is buttoned up to the exact modest height I know Giovanni expects—not too high to seem prudish, not too low to seem available.
The skirt hugs my waist with an expensive grip that feels vaguely like handcuffs.
I fasten the delicate gold chain around my neck, its weight almost imperceptible but somehow still restrictive and the diamond studs slide into my earlobes with a cold precision that matches the clinical nature of this entire ensemble.
Unwrapping my hair from the towel, I release a cascade of damp waves that immediately threaten to destroy his vision of polished perfection. I locate the wall-mounted hands-free hairdryer, put it on high, and let the warm air blast downward as I tilt my head, trying to maximize efficiency.
Meanwhile, as my hair attempts to dry, I open the makeup compact and begin applying foundation with practiced strokes. Multi-tasking my ass off because I’m down to five minutes now. I blend and pat and smooth, all while angling different sections of my hair toward the dryer’s relentless stream.
The lipstick—that specific rose matte shade that Giovanni deemed appropriate—is the final touch. Not too bright to suggest independence, not too nude to appear unprepared. The perfect middle ground of feminine submission packaged in a designer tube.
Two minutes left. I turn the hair dryer off, feeling the sudden silence press against my eardrums. My hair isn’t perfectly dry, but it’ll have to do.
I drag a wooden-handled brush through the still-damp waves, working methodically from root to end, watching as each stroke transforms my unruly mane into something more controlled, more acceptable, more Giovanni-approved.
The brush’s teeth catch on a small tangle, and I wince, carefully working it free before continuing my meticulous grooming ritual.
When I’m finished, I set the brush down with a soft click against the marble countertop and take a good long look at myself in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me is polished, presentable, and utterly unfamiliar—a carefully constructed facade wrapped in expensive fabric and subtle makeup.
Her eyes, my eyes, seem to silently ask questions I’m not ready to answer about who exactly I’m becoming in this fourth-floor attic bedroom, in this house, in this strange new life where every chain I’m wearing right now has been chosen.
Fifty-nine seconds. No time for existential crises when you’re on the clock.
I get my phone from my tote bag, toss it into the clutch next to the mint and the Advil, and smooth the skirt one final time before bolting from the room like I’m escaping a burning building.
Armor on, mask secure. Showtime.
The staircase is steep and narrow, designed for servants who were meant to be invisible, not women in four-inch heels carrying designer purses. I take each step with the focused precision of someone who knows the cost of failure—both financial and physical.
When I reach the second-floor landing, voices drift up from below. I freeze mid-step, my body going still with the instinct of prey. Giovanni’s voice cuts through the air—not yelling, but something more controlled. More dangerous. The whisper-equivalent of a shout.
“—not a discussion. You’re leaving now in Dom’s Escalade. You’re going home and you’re not coming back.”
I inch forward, careful to stay just out of sight, and peer down the stairwell. The glitter girls from earlier are now wearing clothes that look like they were put on in a hurry—wrinkled dresses, mismatched shoes. They’re clutching designer bags to their chests like life preservers.
“But Giovanni, we just—” one starts.
“Now.” One word, delivered with such finality that even I feel its weight from two floors up.
The women scurry toward the door without looking back. Once they’re gone, Giovanni turns to his two friends—now dressed in black suits straight out of a Scorsese film. The transformation from boxer-brief bros to mob enforcers is jarring.
“No more girls,” Giovanni says, straightening his cufflinks. “Not in my house. You want to play, rent your own place.”
The bigger one—Dom, I think—runs a hand over his shaved head. “Come on, G. It’s been this way since—”
“Things change,” Giovanni cuts him off. “This isn’t Pittsburgh.”
Ricky, the fidgety one, shifts his weight. “Look, we’re sorry about the mess. We’ll clean it up, we always do.”
Giovanni holds up a hand, and both men fall silent instantly. “Don’t do that. Don’t treat me like I’m the boss. We’re friends. We’re equals.”
Dom lets out a bark of laughter. “Equals? Since when?”
“Since always,” Giovanni says, his voice softening. “Since you took that beating for me when we were fourteen.”
“That was nothing,” Dom shrugs, but I can see his posture relax. “You would’ve done the same.”
“I would have,” Giovanni agrees. “And I have.”
Ricky slaps Giovanni on the back with surprising familiarity. “Alright, alright. No more girls at Casa Bavga. We’ll find somewhere else to entertain.”
“Somewhere without cameras,” Dom adds with a grin.
“I don’t want to know,” Giovanni says, but there’s something almost like affection in his voice.
“You never do.” Ricky laughs. “That’s why we love you, you uptight bastard.”
They share a look that speaks of decades of history—childhood scraped knees, and teenage fistfights, and adult secrets. I’m an intruder witnessing something private, and I feel suddenly uncomfortable. These men are killers in designer suits, but they’re also... friends?
It doesn’t compute.
I continue my descent, each step carefully measured to announce my presence without seeming like I was eavesdropping. All three men turn at the sound, but my eyes lock on Giovanni.
He’s wearing a charcoal gray suit that makes his black-clad friends look like amateur hour. The fabric drapes across his shoulders with the reverence of something custom-made and obscenely expensive. His hair is styled with a precision that would make a neurosurgeon jealous.
He looks good.
No, he looks dangerous. There’s a difference. I need to remember that.
Dom and Ricky exchange a look, mumble something about seeing him in Pittsburgh, and exit through the front door. Giovanni watches them go, then turns back to me, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second.
I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. Score one for homeless shelter girl.
“Did you... take a shower?” he asks, genuine disbelief coloring his voice.
I nod, my smile growing. “I did.”
His brow furrows in calculation. “How the hell did you manage that? You had twenty minutes.”
I reach the bottom step, now eye-level with him. “I ravel, remember? Survival mode is kind of my thing.”
Giovanni stares at me for a long second, his lush green eyes scanning my face like he’s looking for the trick, the hidden wire, the explanation for how I’ve managed to transform from frumpy cardigan girl to white-clad corporate Barbie in under twenty minutes.
Then, without warning, he offers me his arm.
The gesture is so unexpected, so oddly formal and gentlemanly, that I feel heat rush to my face. Is this embarrassment? Desire? The unholy fusion of both? I don’t have time to analyze it because his arm is still extended, and he’s waiting.
I place my hand in the crook of his elbow, feeling the expensive fabric of his suit against my palm. The contact sends an electric current up my spine that I desperately try to ignore.
We walk out of the house together in perfect step, like we’ve been doing this for years. Like I belong on the arm of a man who probably has people killed between breakfast meetings.
Outside, Giovanni leads me to the passenger side of the Lamborghini. He opens the door, and it rises dramatically upward. The two notebooks from earlier are waiting for us like a plot twist. Giovanni quickly picks them up and offers them to me. “Put them in your purse.”.
I do as I’m told, then slip inside the car with considerably more grace than my earlier barefoot scramble, forcing myself not to look up at him.
He closes the door with a soft click and walks around the front of the car. Now is when I watch… the confident stride, the straight shoulders, the way he commands space without effort.
Something stirs inside me, a hunger that has nothing to do with food and everything to do with the man about to slide into the driver’s seat beside me. It’s a feeling I thought my ex had killed forever, this rush of longing that makes my skin feel too tight and my breath come too fast.
I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want him. He’s everything I should be running from.
But as the driver’s door opens and Giovanni folds his tall frame into the seat beside me, I can’t deny the quickening of my pulse or the heat pooling low in my stomach.
I steal a sideways glance at his profile as he settles behind the wheel, the sharp line of his jaw, the contemplative set of his mouth, the way his long fingers curl around the steering wheel with such casual command. Each detail I notice only pulls me deeper into this impossible gravity.
I should be repulsed by everything he represents.
But I’m not.
I’m intrigued.
I’m excited.
I’m…
God help me, I’m falling for the gangster.