JESSICA
Istare at my phone long after my asshole boss hung up on me and consider chucking the damn thing across the room. Who does that bastard think he is? Even his stupid name is pretentious. Vincenzo San Giovanni. What kind of name is that? I guess it’s fitting for a guy who looks like someone straight out of Hollywood central casting for “tall, dark, and handsome CEO with a mysterious past.” Except he doesn’t have a mysterious past.
He’s the son of Giuseppe San Giovanni, the seventh richest man in the world, after Bezos, Elon Musk, Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, that Walmart guy, and Carlos Slim. It used to be Bill Gates, Carlos Slim, Warren Buffet, and him, but that was before Amazon and Tesla. It’s a different world out there now. I think Daddy San Giovanni might have been bumped out of the top ten by now because of a couple of Arabian prince oil magnates.
There were always rumors about Giuseppe San Giovanni being a Mafia guy, but they only say that because he's rich and Italian. People also say Carlos Slim works with the Mexican cartels; otherwise, how did he get so rich? Society must have forgotten that there are legitimate ways to become wealthy, and that’s to screw over people in every way the law would allow.
I sit up in bed, knowing I’m not going to be able to get back to sleep unless I exhaust myself. I’ve suffered from chronic insomnia since I was sixteen years old. As a child, I had some evil night terrors, so I dreaded going to sleep. But now that I’m an adult and crave it, it’s merely impossible for me to acquire.
I swing my legs out of bed and step down. A yelp and a growl inform me of the source’s displeasure. I look down at my Boston Terrier, who is licking her tail. “Sorry, Kinzi. Asshole boss woke me up, and now I can’t go back to sleep.”
Fuckin’ dick.I change out of my pajamas and put on a sports bra, yoga pants, and a long-sleeve shirt with a hoodie. It’s 12:30 a.m., so the apartment’s gym is bound to be empty.
I live in North Hollywood, and this building has a large gym with new equipment and five Pelotons, so it’s usually packed with actor and model wannabes until about ten p.m on weeknights.
Luckily, the superintendent is an old Korean dude who says I remind him of his granddaughter who lives in Michigan and never calls, so he’s given me after-hours access to the building’s amenities. In exchange, I stop by this old Korean place on my way home from work and pick him up tteokbokki (a hot and spicy rice cake)or bungeoppang (this odd fish-shaped bread).
I don’t know much about Korean food because I never ate this stuff when my parents were alive. I’m only half Korean, and my dad was a second-generation Korean-American who grew up in San Francisco. Anyway, the old dude is teaching me more about my people’s culture than my dad ever did.
I get down to the first floor and find the gym dark. Good. I use my special access card, and the lights turn on over my head as I enter the premises. I bypass the fancy gym equipment and head straight to the back where the jump ropes and the two-hundred-pound, free-standing punching bags are.
I start with the jump rope like I always do and execute six reps of fifty. When I first started doing this, I’d throw up after the first twenty, but I built up to a higher number over time. After the jump rope, I rest for a moment, wiping my sweat while wrapping my hands. I take the time to do this because I’ve broken my knuckles before. The tape keeps all the moveable bones in place. With that done, I slip on the gloves and attack the punching bag.
I practice my jabs and hooks– my hooks especially because they require a lot of power and could potentially take down the opponent faster. I repeat a little mantra in my head as I dance around, “jab-jab-cross-lead uppercut.” My trainer tells me to think of a bully in school or a teacher I hated when practicing on my own and turn my anger into energy. For some reason, the smug face of my handsome, square-jawed boss pops up in my mind’s eye, and one punch tilts the punching bag all the way back before it springs forward and nearly hits me.
I switch to my lower half and focus on my roundhouse kicks, which lack power but look cool. Okay, it lacks power for now, but I’m working on it. I’m also working on my flying front kick. I’m not trying to be some Shaolin master or anything, but I want to be able to defend myself. Looking cool is a bonus. I see the movement in the corner of my eye, and I don’t even think about it. I lash out with a back kick and hit something solid. I hear an “unf” and a thud.
I spin around to check out the casualty, keeping myself in a southpaw position. I edge toward the bench and peek over. A red-haired man in a black turtleneck and gray slacks is on the floor, clutching his stomach, coughing, and trying to catch his breath.
“Who the fuck are you? Tell me, or the next kick will crush your nuts.”
He flashes me a peace sign and rolls over toward the bench, pulling himself up on it so he can stand. As he straightens to his full height, I realize how tall and well-built he is. The dude works out. Can’t fight, though. But I caught him unaware. I remain on guard, keeping my fists ready.
“At ease, soldier,” he says with an affable smile, still rubbing his breadbox, which is pretty flat. “I’m harmless.”
From his shiny black leather shoes to his short, neatly-styled strawberry blond hair parted to the left, I study him up and down. If this guy isn’t a cop, I’m gonna eat a boxing glove. I stare at his ankle and try to discern a bulge. “No, you’re not. You’ve got a harness strapped to your ankle.”
He blinks and opens his mouth as if to issue a denial but keeps it closed. Sharp jawline, strong chin, high cheekbones, and a long, straight nose that might have been broken once and wasn’t properly set. He tries again. “Who are you?”
I scoff. “I should be asking you that, asshole. It’s not cool to sneak up on someone.”
He bites his lower lip like he’s trying to keep himself from smiling. "I'm Special Agent Nicolas Fine, from the FBI's Organized Crime Unit."
"Why are you bothering me? Do you think I'm Warui or something? I'm gonna stop you right there, boss. I'm Korean. You know, like BTS?"
He flashes his badge at me like it ought to impress me. Big deal. He could have gotten that shit at Party City.
His brown eyebrows pull together in the middle of his forehead. "Are you always this abrasive, or is it just my lucky day?"
"Does your visit have a point? I need to go to bed. I've got work in a few hours." I yawn to underscore my point even though I'm not sleepy because I've got adrenaline coursing through my veins. "Also, why are you dressed like Steve Jobs? Aren't you guys supposed to be in a Brooks Brothers suit all the time?"
"It's my stakeout outfit. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is to sit in a Crown Victoria for ten hours in an itchy suit?"
Sometimes when I've been sitting at my desk in the office for a while, I get this pins and needles feeling in my legs. I'm having it now, except on my neck and the back of my head. "You've been stalking me?"
He sighs. "Ma'am, it's not stalking when the FBI does it. Anyway, I had to follow you around for a few days to make sure you weren't being followed."
Hearing this is like a punch in the gut for me. I sit on the bench and take off my gloves. I thought I'd gotten pretty good at spotting when I have a tail. Apparently not, since this Fed managed to follow me around for days without noticing. Maybe I've gotten rusty.