Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
But the other part of me—the part that used to stay up until 3 a.m. reading dark romances where the villain gets the girl—whispers yes. Because knowledge is leverage, and I currently have none. Because every detail he shares is a breadcrumb on a trail I might need to follow back to safety someday.
Because I’m sitting next to a man who’s probably killed people, and I need to know if I’m riding with Tony Soprano or Hannibal Lecter.
Giovanni doesn’t push. He just drives, one hand resting casually on the wheel like we’re out for a Sunday cruise instead of heading to a mob family dinner. The silence stretches between us, dangerously thin.
I should say no. I should change the subject. I should ask about the weather or gas mileage or literally anything else.
Instead, I find myself calculating risk factors like some demented actuary of bad decisions.
If he tells me and then has to kill me, at least I’ll die knowing.
If he tells me and doesn’t kill me, I’ll have information.
If he doesn’t tell me, I’ll still be in this car with a murderer, just an extra-mysterious one.
None of these options is “get out of car, run screaming into the hills,” which would be the correct choice according to every horror movie ever made.
But I’ve been making bad choices since I signed that contract this morning, so why stop now?
“Yes,” I say finally, my voice steadier than I feel. “I want to know.”
Giovanni’s mouth curves into something almost like a smile, but sharper. More predatory.
“When I was a teenager,” he begins, his tone shifting into something softer, almost nostalgic, “my cousin Jino had a protection dog—a German Shepherd named Enzo.”
A dog? This is about a dog? My brain stutters, recalibrating from expected mafia hit to... pet story?
“Enzo had been with the family for twelve years. My cousin’s constant companion through some... difficult times.”
The way he says “difficult times” carries weight, like there’s a whole other story buried in those two words.
“But Enzo was old,” Giovanni continues, his fingers tapping once, twice against the leather steering wheel. “He had cancer. Painful. Terminal.”
I watch his profile as he speaks, trying to reconcile this oddly gentle storyteller with the man who casually mentioned shooting someone at age eight.
“Jino couldn’t bear to take him to a veterinarian’s office to be put down. Said it was too clinical for family.”
Family. The word echoes strangely when applied to a dog. But I get it. My parents’ cat was more sibling than pet to me growing up.
“One winter night, my Uncle Manzu made the difficult decision to end the dog’s suffering at home.”
The car suddenly feels colder. I wrap my arms around myself, already knowing where this is going.
“I was staying with them that weekend. They asked me to help dig a grave in the woods behind their property.” Giovanni’s voice remains steady, but something in his tone shifts, becoming more precise, more detailed. “The ground was frozen. We needed pickaxes. My hands were raw by the time we finished.”
I can picture it vividly—three dark figures in the woods, breath clouding in the winter air, the sound of metal striking frozen earth.
“After it was done, I helped wrap Enzo in his favorite blanket. The three of us carried him to the grave under an oak tree where he used to rest in the summer. We marked it with stones. Jino said a few words.”
Giovanni falls silent, his story apparently complete. The only sound is the purr of the engine and the rush of air outside.
I should feel relieved. It was just a dog. A mercy killing for a beloved pet. Not a mob hit or a business rival or whatever horror story I’d been bracing for.
And yet.
There’s something in the careful way he told it. The precision of certain details—the frozen ground, the blanket, the oak tree—alongside the complete absence of others. Like how exactly Uncle Manzu “ended the suffering.” Like whether this was the only body Giovanni had helped bury, or just the one he’s willing to tell me about.
It’s like being handed a beautifully wrapped gift box that might contain either chocolates or a severed finger. The packaging doesn’t quite match what you sense is inside.
I realize I’m staring at him, trying to read truth in the angles of his face. His expression gives away nothing—no grief, no emotion at all. Just that perfect control that he claims makes him bad at poker.
“That’s the body you buried?” I finally ask, my voice sounding small in the confines of the car.
“That’s the body I buried,” he confirms, eyes still on the road. “Your turn.”
Your turn. Great. Because what follows “I buried a body” in normal conversation is definitely “Now you share something fun about yourself!”
I need to reassess. Fast. This isn’t a date. It’s not even a job interview anymore. It’s a weird psychological experiment where I’m both lab rat and co-researcher.