Chapter 16 Emmaleen
Welcome to the Bavga Family Murder Mansion, population: me, my bad decisions, and a king-sized bed that’s practically screaming “plot development.”
The blackout blinds have plunged me into darkness so complete I might as well be in a sensory deprivation tank. Or a coffin.
Equally comforting options.
Didn’t I wake up this morning in a homeless shelter? Wasn’t I just standing at a desk in too-big red shoes three hours ago?
The timeline of my day reads like someone with severe ADHD wrote it while on a cocaine bender.
Let’s recap, shall we?
Late to work. Check. Nothing says “professional” like missing your start time on day one.
The contract with its “Sistema di Demerito”—Italian for “Ways Emmaleen Will Fail Today.” A series of punishments that apparently include “surprise road trip to mob family dinner.” Very normal workplace policy.
Who can forget, Satan’s stilettos?
Standing for hours sorting meaningless papers while Giovanni watched me like I was a particularly interesting science experiment.
The errand to get a suit from his bedroom. A trap disguised as a task.
Driving the Lamborghini—okay, that part was actually incredible, if we’re being honest. Felt like piloting a spaceship designed by someone who hates poor people.
The mansion that belongs in a murder mystery dinner theater.
The closet filled with clothes in my exact size, which means he’s either psychic or had me measured in my sleep, and I’m not sure which is creepier.
And finally, the offer: “Unless... you come with me.”
Five words that weren’t really an offer but a test. Or a trap. Or both.
Now I’m staring at a king-sized bed that dominates the space like Chekhov’s most obvious gun. He said he’d take the couch—the world’s least convincing lie. That bed is waiting like the final boss in a video game I didn’t know I was playing.
This isn’t a job. It’s an audition for Stockholm Syndrome: The Musical.
I am spectacularly, monumentally, award-winningly stupid.
That’s the only logical conclusion I can possibly come to after reviewing the evidence before me.
My decision-making skills deserve their own special category of Darwin Award—one where you survive just long enough to keep making progressively worse choices until the universe itself has to step in and say, “Honey… no.”
But what’s my alternative?
Twenty-one days until complete homelessness.
I’ve got eight demerits hanging over my head.
And a chance—very slight, practically minuscule chance—to earn life-changing money.
And in that context… I’ve made worse decisions.
I think.
The door beeps with all the cheerful innocence of a bomb timer reaching zero. I step back instinctively—fight or flight kicking in—and my heel catches on the edge of a rug I didn’t even register was there.
Physics does the rest. My arms pinwheel in that universal “I’m going down” semaphore, and suddenly I’m sprawled on my ass like a toddler who just discovered gravity is a thing.
Giovanni looms in the doorway, silhouetted against the fading light outside. His expression cycles through confusion, annoyance, and something that might be amusement if he were capable of human emotions.
“Why are you on the floor.” Not even a question. Just a flat observation, like I’ve chosen to have an impromptu picnic on his expensive rug.
“I thought I’d check out your interior decorating from a different angle.” I hastily swat hair out of my eyes, trying to maintain whatever microscopic shred of dignity I have left. “The ceiling really ties the room together.”
Now comes the real Olympic event: Getting up off the floor in a white pencil skirt that’s approximately as flexible as medieval armor.
I attempt to leverage myself up with one hand while keeping my knees together, but the skirt constricts around my thighs like a python.
I try a different approach, rolling to one side and pushing up with my elbow, but that just makes me look like a beached sea creature.
Giovanni watches this gymnastics routine with the detached interest of a slug. After what feels like several geological epochs, he finally extends his hand.
I stare at it like it might be radioactive. Taking it means admitting defeat. Not taking it means spending the rest of my natural life on this floor.
I take his hand. It’s warm and dry and strong, and he pulls me up with insulting ease, like I weigh nothing.
“Thanks,” I mutter, smoothing down the skirt that betrayed me.
Giovanni is already moving, striding toward a desk in the corner. “We have a problem,” he says, yanking open a drawer. “Rico planned this. It’s a trap.”
He pulls out a thick letter-sized envelope while continuing his exposition dump. “He hates me, I hate him. It’s mutual. Has been since we were children.”
I’m trying to follow, but my attention keeps snagging on that envelope.
It’s bulging with something.
Meanwhile, Giovanni is monologuing. The names start blurring together—Luca or Luigi or someone important enough to kill someone else important.
I nod at appropriate intervals, making concerned faces when his tone drops, widening my eyes when his jaw tightens.
But really, I’m watching his hands unfold the envelope to reveal stacks of cash.
Actual, physical, rectangular green money. Thousands of dollars, by the look of it.
“—and now he’s here, which means this is going to turn into a bloody disaster because the last time we were in the same room—”
I tune back in just as Giovanni finally winds down his mobster family tree presentation. He holds out several bills.
“Here.”
I stare at the money, then at him. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Five hundred. It’s best if you leave.” His face is unreadable. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out. You still had eight demerits, but I’m gonna pay you anyway.”
My brain is buffering, struggling to process the abrupt shift.
“I’ll call you an Uber.” He raises a hand when I open my mouth. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover the ride back to Riverview.”
The information finally clicks into place.
He’s firing me. Again.
I let out a breath. It’s controlled, but long and filled with accusations—the kind that would scorch the earth if I actually vocalized them. The air hisses through my teeth, carrying with it all the frustration of being jerked around like a marionette on tangled strings.
My chest tightens as I hold back the flood of words threatening to spill over. This controlled exhalation is the thinnest veneer of civility stretched over a foundation of pure, unadulterated rage.
Every molecule of air that leaves my lungs is charged with the electricity of unspoken questions, of trust shattered against the ragged edges of his inconsistency.
“I come all this way with you, just so you can fire me? Again?” My voice rises with each word, incredulity and anger swirling together like a particularly toxic cocktail.
“Absolutely not.” The words escape with the velocity of a champagne cork finally released from pressure.
“Three times. Three times you’ve tried to fire me today.
Three times you’ve pulled this rug out from under me.
Do you have a hobby? Is this what you do for fun?
Psychological whack-a-mole with desperate women? ”
Giovanni’s expression doesn’t change, which only fans the flames higher.
“First at your apartment when I was late, then in your closet after you got some ‘mysterious message’, and now—” I gesture wildly at the stacks of cash, the pool house, the entire situation, “—whatever this circus is. What’s your endgame here, Bavga? Do you get off on watching people scramble?”
He opens his mouth, but I’m on a roll now, words tumbling out faster than my brain can filter them.
“No, don’t answer that. Let me guess. ‘It’s business, Miss Take.’ Everything’s business with you people. Well, guess what? I’m not a line item on your spreadsheet of power plays. I’m a person with an actual life outside your little empire!”
I pace the little foyer, my Louboutins clicking an aggressive percussion to my rant.
“Maybe in your world, people can just float from one catastrophic decision to another with a blank check to fix the fallout, but some of us live in reality. You know, that place where actions have consequences and you can’t just throw money at problems until they go away?”
Giovanni blinks one time exactly.
“And yes, I’m aware of the irony of saying that while you’re literally trying to throw money at me to make me disappear. Very on-brand, Mr. Bavga. Ten out of ten for consistency in your sociopathic approach to human resources.”
I stop pacing abruptly, pointing an accusatory finger at him.
“You don’t get to Marie Kondo me out of your life because I don’t spark joy in your master plan anymore.
I’ve done everything—everything—you’ve asked.
I wore the shoes. I sorted your stupid papers.
I drove your compensatory midlife crisis on wheels through town like some twisted Cinderella whose fairy godmother moonlights as a loan shark. ”
His eyebrows lift slightly at that one.
“Not everyone grew up in Mansion McMansionton with their own private pool house and... and whatever that thing is.” I wave vaguely at what might be a sauna in the corner. “Some of us had to work for a living. Some of us didn’t have the luxury of failing upward into criminal empires.”
The words are spilling out now, unchecked, a dam breaking after hours of pressure.
“So no, I will not take your guilt money and slink away like some inconvenient plot point in your mob drama. You made a deal. I’m holding up my end. Either fire me properly with two weeks’ notice and a reference letter—ha, imagine that on your letterhead—or let me finish the job I was hired to do.”
I finally pause for breath, chest heaving, and realize I’ve backed him against his own desk.
Giovanni blinks again, slowly, like a reptile considering whether its prey is worth the effort of digestion.
“Are you finished?” he asks, voice maddeningly calm.