Page 22 of Mafia King: Matteo
The fragrance of my mystery man clings to my blouse, and after one sniff, I toss my clothes into the hamper. I take my time washing myself in the shower before I realize I need to send out resumes. I sent a draft of my resume to an acquaintance of my mother, who works in human resources. She emailed me suggestions on how to improve it. I’m not great at finessing sentences. In my opinion, resumes make you sound great and provide very little information.
Resumes are like political speeches. The politician will talk for ten minutes and say nothing. I call it word salad. I wouldn’t know how to converse without stating my opinion. It’s unnatural that so many people talk about things that won’t matter in a few years. Meanwhile, the most important questions that will shape our world for the next ten years are the ones that are never asked or discussed.
I dry myself off and put on a comfy pair of joggers that my mom gifted to me for Christmas. It feels like silk, and the dark blue accentuates the color of my eyes.
I texted Izzy and thanked her for brunch. I also informed her I got home okay after banging the mystery man in his limo.
My phone rings immediately.
“Yes?” I tease her.
“You just hooked up with him again?” Izzy squeals excitedly.
“Yes, I did. He picked me up in a limo after I finished shopping, and his driver drove us around the city while we fucked and sucked in the back.”
“How did he even find you? I mean, no one knew you were shopping at Chanel. I think you need a guard to keep you safe.”
“You mean to cock block me? No way. I’m not doing anything to scare him off. It’s the most incredible sex of my life.”
“Promise me you’ll put Kirill on it today, or I’ll tell Dmitry.”
“Relax. I’m meeting Kirill tonight for drinks at the club. I’m sure he’ll get to the bottom of it.”
Maybe the limo was caught on a surveillance camera, and Kirill can get the license plate number. That would make it easy for him to track down his true identity.
On the other hand, I doubt someone hiding their identity is riding around in limos that can be traced back to their real name. Why is he still playing the game? I’m nobody important in the hierarchy of the bratva.
“True, but please be safe. I worry about you.”
“I will. I gotta go work on my resume, so wish me luck.”
“Luck,” she says before saying goodbye and hanging up.
I open my state-of-the-art electronic device, Dad bought me for college. It has all the design software I needed for college. If I get a job and need to work at home, I am equipped to do it. Most designer jobs involve teams that share ideas, and each person is assigned a portion of the workload to determine what needs to be purchased.
In college, we spent a night at an Airbnb to get the area’s vibe. Then, we worked together to make the colors neutral so the paint on the walls wouldn’t annoy anyone. It also makes maintenance easy. We throw in a few pillows that are the same color, repeating it a minimum of three times to tie in the color throughout the rooms, and voilà, it’s finished.
That’s how it worked in fashion school. I’m conflicted about working with a team because group dynamics can be cutthroat. I had to take some business classes in school. I found the students were mean and withheld assignments from me. Those students had the attitude that they knew everything, and no group discussions were held as outlined in the syllabus. Not only was I excluded from that loop, but emails with my portion of the assignment also never reached my inbox.
To my horror, the group petitioned the teacher to remove me from the group for non-participation. I spoke to the teacher, who wasn’t sympathetic. I realized all of this two weeks before a website had to be live for the professor to grade it. I took matters into my own hands and hired a web designer to outdo these petty classmates. I handed in the written paper with the help of a graduate student and received an A in the class.
I could have done without the drama, but I’ll make the impossible possible when push comes to shove.
With my resume in hand, I searched online for job openings. I found cabinet sales, window treatment sales, and furniture. Ugh. There is no way I’ll be a floor salesperson. How is that even related to design? I’m about to give up when I see an interior design assistant opening.
The job requirements are for conceptualizing design projects, scheduling oversight, and overseeing the delivery of goods and installations as required.
I’m qualified, and the pay is adequate. I have minimal experience, but I’m not asking for a lead position. The company’s name, Indio Designs, sounds legitimate, and their location is nearby. I filled out the application, attached my resume, and clicked the submit button. I admit my odds of success aren’t good. I have no work experience outside my internship. The position is likely to be filled by a seasoned professional.
I have time to kill before I meet Kirill, so I pull on yoga pants and a T-shirt and head to the yoga studio. The weather outside is brisk but warm enough to walk to the studio with my yoga mat tucked under my arm and my gym bag holding my wallet, phone, and towel slung over my shoulder.
Just my luck, when I get to the studio, they’re in between yoga classes, so I wind up waiting for the next class. It seems I spend my life waiting in lines or waiting for something to happen.
The prior class finally finished and rushed out of the room, and those of us waiting politely entered the stuffy studio. The wooden floor is shiny, and floor fans are blowing the air because many bodies moving around have warmed the room.
I pick a spot and pull the yoga mat from my shoulder. I unroll it before I walk to the cubby to grab blocks and the straps needed for stretching.
Once everyone is situated, the instructor begins. I focus on my breathing and watch others in the class to make sure my form is correct. However, as much as I try to concentrate, the dark eyes of my lover aren’t far from my thoughts.
