Page 1 of The Mafia King's Baby

1

Celia

“Perfect.” I smooth the final wrinkle from the crisp white duvet and step back to admire my handiwork.

The guest bedroom looks nothing like it did a month ago when I started this project. Gone are the faded floral wallpaper and musty smell of disuse that greeted me every time I opened this door. Fresh paint in a soothing sage green covers the walls now. It’s so perfect that I’m certain the person who did it had nothing but time on their hands.

That’s me. I’m that person.

I’m the one who has nothing but time since I got laid off, but I’m not letting that get me down. I’m putting it to good use with this renovation. After all, it might be what ends up saving my ass.

New blackout curtains frame the window that overlooks the quiet street, their fabric thick enough to block out the morning sun for guests who want to sleep in. The antique dresser I foundat a thrift store gleams with fresh polish, its brass hardware catching the afternoon light bleeding through the window.

I run my hand along the smooth surface of the nightstand, checking one last time that everything’s in place. The ceramic lamp is ready, though currently off since the curtains are open, and I’ve stocked the single drawer with a leather-bound notebook and a quality pen for guests who might want to jot down thoughts, recommendations, or simply decompress from their travels.

A small wicker basket on the dresser holds travel-sized toiletries—shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and lotion—ordered from Amazon and all in neutral scents that won’t clash with anyone’s preferences. Beside it sits a handwritten welcome note on cream cardstock, explaining the Wi-Fi password and offering local recommendations.

This isn’t just a renovation. It’s my lifeline. A shot at independence... maybe even salvation.

The layoff notice still sits in my kitchen drawer, folded and refolded until the creases have worn soft as fabric. I’ve memorized every word: “Due to budget constraints and departmental restructuring, your position as Marketing Manager has been eliminated, effective immediately. We appreciate your five years of dedicated service and wish you success in your future endeavors.”

Thirty-three words. Half a decade at Henderson & Associates,gone. Reduced to a generic farewell and severance that wouldn't even cover a month's mortgage.

I shake off the ugly feeling and focus on the present. The room is ready. The space feels warm and welcoming, exactly what Ihoped to achieve when I started this project as a way to channel my grief and rage into something productive. Now I need to be ready too.

My laptop waits on the bed, the QwikRent homepage already loaded in my browser. I’ve spent weeks researching the platform, reading success stories from other hosts, and analyzing what makes some listings more appealing than others.

Lake Tahoe draws tourists year-round. There are skiers and snowboarders in winter, and hikers and boaters in summer. Even leaf-peepers come in autumn, who come to witness the aspens turning gold against the mountain backdrop.

My neighborhood sits perfectly positioned between the lake and the main ski resorts, close enough to be convenient for adventure seekers but far enough from the crowds to offer the peace and quiet some travelers crave.

I settle cross-legged on the bed, the laptop warm against my thighs, and open a new listing. The cursor blinks expectantly in the title field, waiting for me to distill everything I’ve created here into a few compelling words.

“Cozy Guest Room in Quiet Lake Tahoe Neighborhood,” I type, then delete it immediately. Too generic and forgettable. It sounds like every other listing on the platform.

“Peaceful Retreat Minutes from Lake Tahoe Adventures.” Better, but still missing something essential. It describes the location but not the feeling I want guests to experience.

“Charming Guest Room: Your Home Away from Home.” I read it again. Warm, welcoming... but not desperate. Comfort, authenticity. Yes, that’s it. I keep it.

The description flows easier now that I’ve found my tone. I highlight the room’s amenities, the comfortable queen bed with high-quality linens, the dedicated workspace with good lighting, and the private entrance that offers guests independence while still feeling connected to a real home. I emphasize the peaceful neighborhood where they can actually hear birds singing instead of traffic noise, the easy access to hiking trails and lake activities, and the thoughtful touches that show I care about their experience.

I upload the photos I took this morning when the light hit the room just right, making the green walls glow with warmth and the white linens look impossibly crisp and inviting. I spent an hour getting the angles perfect, adjusting the flowers, and making sure every shot showcased the space at its absolute best. The images tell the story I want to tell that this isn’t just a place to sleep but a carefully curated experience.

When I reach the pricing section, I hesitate. This decision could make or break my entire venture. If I set the rate too high and potential guests will scroll past without a second glance. Price it too low, and I’ll struggle to cover my mortgage, utilities, and the credit card debt I’ve been accumulating since the layoff. Worse, low prices might signal low quality to discriminating travelers.

I spend twenty minutes researching similar listings in the area, cross-referencing amenities, locations, and guest reviews. The data helps me understand the market, but ultimately, I have to trust my instincts. I settle on a rate that feels fair enough to make a meaningful dent in my monthly expenses but competitive enough to attract bookings from guests who have dozens of options from which to choose.

The amenities list grows as I think through what travelers actually need, including reliable Wi-Fi for remote workers, acoffee maker and mini-fridge stocked with basics, extra blankets for chilly mountain nights, and a selection of books and local guidebooks for rainy days or quiet evenings. Each detail represents hours of research and preparation, which is my attempt to anticipate needs before guests even realize they have them.

In the house rules section, I keep things simple and reasonable—no smoking anywhere on the property, well-behaved pets are welcome, no parties or events, and quiet hours after ten p.m. out of respect for the neighbors. I want to attract guests who’ll respect the space and the neighborhood’s peaceful atmosphere, who understand this is someone’s home, not just another hotel room, where they can behave however they want.

While putting the finishing touches on my QwikRent listing, scrolling through the final details one more time before I commit to publishing it, my mind inevitably drifts to thoughts I’ve been trying to avoid. The empty space beside me on the couch, the second coffee mug that’s been gathering dust in my cabinet, and the plans I’d made that now feel foolish and naïve.

Tripp Reyes.

Even thinking his name sends a familiar ache through my chest, though it’s duller now than it was four months ago. The sharp edge of heartbreak has worn down to a persistent throb, like a bruise that’s healing but still tender to the touch.

Our three-year relationship ended just two weeks before the layoff, as if the universe decided to strip away every stable thing in my life at once, testing just how much disappointment I could absorb before breaking completely. The timing wasn’t coincidental. Stress reveals people, doesn't it? And the pressureof my job loss certainly showed me Tripp wasn't the partner I thought he was.

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