Page 25 of Giovanni the Savage

Everyone has their demons and how they cope with them.

“I will.” I blink. “When I find the killer.”

Eric groans loudly at his unsuccessful attempt.

“Can you at least assign some work to your assistant?” he suggests before sipping his coffee.

Meanwhile, my cup has already been drained empty.

“And have some sloppy nerd of a man do dirty digging for me?” I ask. “No thanks.”

“I thought your assistant was a woman?”

“I fired her,” I deadpan.

“What?” he exclaims. “She was here the last time I visited, and that was just two weeks ago.”

I shrug. “She was incompetent and couldn’t stay.”

He sighs. “Damn, man, you must enjoy solitude.”

A soft knock stops me from replying, and someone walks inside my office.

“Speaking of incompetent assistants!” I exclaim sadistically, rubbing my palms together. “Where have you been, Omar?”

Omar, my assistant, who is barely a week old, comes in looking like a sloppy mess. He’s clutching over ten manila folders to his chest, his shoelace is undone, and his glasses hang on his nose bridge.

From his appearance, it’ll be hard to believe he graduated with honors. But I guess a degree isn’t everything.

“Good day, sir,” he greets, but I ignore his greeting while Eric responds. I’m still too busy accessing my sorry excuse of an assistant.

How did he even get through the three stages of interviews?

“I’m sorry, sir,” he mutters, shifting on his feet.

I raise a brow and wait for his excuse.

“I had a family emergency I had to attend to, and my office printer broke down, so I had to go to the third floor to print them out.”

I stay silent because I’m feeding off the fear in his eyes. The fear of the unknown. He can’t tell what I’m thinking because of my relaxed features. I want to punch Eric in the gut for giving him a sympathetic nod.

“How does this relate to the files that were supposed to be submitted two hours ago?” I make a show of glancing at my Rolex watch.

“I’m sorry. If I had known the printer wasn’t working, I would have been faster.”

“Yeah. If you had known you’d lose your job today, you could have at least worn ironed clothes for your last day,” I shoot, earning a muffled chuckle from Eric.

“What?” Omar gasps, his eyes wide. “Please. My wife is a stay-at-home wife. Please.”

“Then I’m wondering why she couldn’t handle the emergency,” I reply, throwing his words back in his face.

I can tell he lied about that, but that's not my problem. I’ll save the rage for Harvey when I get a hold of him.

“Please,” he pleads again, coming closer to me.

I shoot him a stern look, and he halts. He looks like he’s going to piss his pants any minute, and the only thing I’m worried about is the thousand-dollar Persian rug he’s standing on. My neck ticks at the mud on his shoes.

That's more reason to fire him.

---