Mafia Tech Bro

Chapter five

TANIHSA

It was f*****g Pepa. And no, my shock wasn’t from seeing her. It was from how she looked clinging to Christof’s arm like a couture barnacle. She looked like a magazine spread had come to life just to ruin my night. Her dress was white, silky, draped perfectly over her body like it had been poured on her by angels. The slit ran high enough to offend modest people. Her hair was in soft glossy waves that defied humidity.

Her makeup was—ugh—flawless. Cat-eyes sharp enough to cut. Lips glossy and plump and probably worth more than my monthly rent. Her shoes sparkled like they had some inbuilt lighting.

She hung onto Christof’s arm like she owned it. Like she owned him, like she owned the oxygen on this property and was gracious enough to let me have a small, pitiful sip.

Christof looked like he was styled by Lucifer’s most stylish demon. He wore a black Tom Ford suit, so immaculate it could’ve put lesser men in a trance. The satin lapels caught the golden outdoor lighting like a halo, an evil, mocking halo. His shirt was crisp, tailored to his annoyingly perfect torso. His cufflinks glinted. His shoes looked like they’d been polished by the tears of people with student loans.

I was too tired for this.

Christof barely glanced at me as usual. He was too busy letting Pepa adjust his collar like she was the elegant, terrifying puppet master of his wardrobe. If someone was desperately searching for an illustration of what a perfect couple looked like, then they’d be pleased to be standing in front of Christof and Pepa right now.

Except I’m not that person. Screw them.

Pepa saw me a few minutes later. Her smile stretched. Slowly, beautifully, pretentiously. I hated that pretentious smile of hers even more than I hated her. There’s nothing more unnerving than someone being mean and pretending they weren’t.

“Oh my gosh, Tanisha,” she cooed, voice dripping with honey and poison. “You look… amazing.”

Amazing. Seriously? I didn’t need anyone to tell me I looked like I’d been chased through New York by wolves. She now stood in front of me with an uninterested-looking Christof.

She tilted her head, lashes fluttering in a way that was definitely not natural. “Even with your heavy makeup melting a little… it’s giving… edgy.”

I wanted to run into traffic. Before I could react, Pepa’s face lit up with an idea.

“Oh! Wait, don’t move,” she said sweetly, she grinned as she lifted her phone. “I want to introduce you to my vlog. My followers love seeing the people behind the scenes. It makes everything feel… original.”

Original? Of course. Because nothing says original like recording your boyfriend’s assistant in her end-of-day zombie form. Before I could step out of the frame, she was already recording.

“Guys,” Pepa said in her soft, musical influencer voice, “this is Tanisha. She helps keep everything running smoothly. She’s such a sweetheart, always working so hard.”

The way she said it made “hardworking” sound like “overwhelmed orphan.” Her smile was bright, her tone was kind. What a pretentious b***h.

Pepa angled the camera gently, gracefully, never harsh, never mocking. My face instantly reddened, and I tried mentally ordering myself to relax while trying to avoid eye contact with her camera. What I really wanted to do was smash her damn phone.

“Lift your chin a little?” Pepa murmured. “Yes, perfect. You have such… earnest eyes. My followers will adore you.”

Earnest, she meant tired, drained, possibly dying.

Christof just stood there, displaying a wide grin, like she was putting on a show for his entertainment.

Pepa turned to me with a pleased sigh. “Could you film me for a second, sweetie? Just a quick little clip.”

She said “sweetie” the way you say it to a dog you don’t like but don’t want to kick in public.

I took the phone, reminding myself to breathe. She stepped back, hand on hip, hair cascading, posing with the effortless grace of a woman who actually gets eight hours of sleep. Christof looked at her with bright glossy eyes, like she were the queen of his demonic universe.

“Okay, just get a wide angle first,” she said warmly. “Then maybe… oh! A little upward pan. Something dreamy.”

I recorded her, slow and steady, circling her like I was filming a documentary about sparkly predators in their natural habitat.

“Yes, that’s lovely,” Pepa said, watching me with the encouraging smile someone gave a child learning to tie their shoes. “Maybe tilt just a bit more? Don’t worry, it’s tricky for beginners.”

I wasn’t a beginner, I was just actively resisting the urge to dropkick her phone into the nearest fountain.

“Perfect!” she chirped. “Let me see?”

I handed the phone back. She watched the footage, nodding like a benevolent queen reviewing the work of her servant.

“This is wonderful,” she beamed. “You really captured the moment. Thank you, sweetheart.”

I didn’t think there was any word in the thesaurus I currently detested more than “sweetheart.” I gave her a tight-lipped smile.

But Pepa wasn’t done with me.

She scanned my face momentarily, gaze bright with mischief. “Christof, come see. I wish I could learn to get my makeup done just like hers.” She pouted, clutching his arms.

He didn’t look at me. Instead, he held her face in his hands lovingly.

“Pepa darling. You do not need to wear makeup at all, or that much.” He nodded in my direction. “You’re beautiful without it. Plus, we don’t want your face melting, do we?”

They both burst into a fit of laughter and started walking to his black Rolls-Royce Cullinan, where Emil held the door open.

Just as I was about to walk behind them like the forgotten third wheel in a very dark, expensive rom-com, Pepa turned, gesturing to my car.

“Oh no…I’m sorry but you’re riding in that. So you don’t have to come back here to pick it up.”

Christof gave a small amused smirk, like he was privately entertained by this entire power imbalance circus. Of course he was. He probably found it charming.

I felt so humiliated that I couldn’t find words. I just nodded. When I got into my car, there was only one word for what I felt. And it was shame.