| 1 | Birthday Girl's Dead...Inside

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

COPYRIGHT © 2024 by M.Z.Mauve

• DISCLAIMER •

Scenes, characters, dialogues and events in this story are all invented.

This story contains mature themes, profanity, violence, and graphic sexual content not intended for young readers. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this story or plagiarism of any kind is prohibited by the law.

| MAIN CHARACTERS |

FL ••• Seraphine "Sephie" Lee Azur

- 24 years old

- receptionist at a country club

ML ••• Dominico "Doni" / "Dom" Deschanel Tomassini

- 29 years old

- CFO of his father's new firm

Chapter 1

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[ S E R A P H I N E ]

I'm a killer.

I killed someone last night.

Sweet old Sephie is dead.

I murdered innocent little Sephie in more ways than I imagined. She died the moment I accepted the money. Gratefully. The biggest payment I've ever received since I jumped on the bandwagon...ever since I joined the world of online sex work.

Yes. I've been selling myself to complete strangers. Lingerie photos. Videos. Explicitly graphic "my diary" entries. You name it.

My profile doesn't flaunt a long list of subscribers. But I'm getting there. It's quite a lucrative side-gig for a rookie.

I suppose I've made history for being the first-ever internet whore among my immigrant family's mostly working class bloodline. In a predominantly Catholic country to boot.

Hey. Don't judge me.

"Tough times call for desperate measures," my bestie would say. Actually, ex-best friend. I doubt he'd approve of the life decisions I've been making lately, though. Wherever he may be.

For now, it's either online whoring or I rob a bank. Well, more than one, preferably. Obviously I can't pull off a string of bank heists on my own.

So, yeah. I'm making easy money out of sad, lonely strangers' carnal desires.

"Two thousand euros," I murmur as I check my profile's withdrawable balance.

A total of 2,012 bucks for some grainy lingerie and bikini shots. Wow. Someone's got quite a disposable income.

I have no clue who "Angelx30" is in real life, but they must be a fan of cheap lingerie and crochet bikinis for paying this much for some low quality selfies flaunting my "assets"... Emphasis on "ass".

The most I've earned since I started selling thirst-trapping photos? A whopping twelve dollars. Until last night.

If "Angelx30" is actually a guy, maybe he had a gut feel about my dire need of cash. Not because today warrants a little celebration.

No thanks. I'm too old and tired of pink and glittery, balloons-all-over birthday parties. I'm not "Baby Sephie" anymore.

She's dead, like I said. "Happy birthday to me." I put my phone away. I ought to smile and look happy for the big, dark, and gooey-looking Brigadeiro cake staring back at me, sitting on the left side of the receptionist desk. Just waiting to be devoured.

I'm on afternoon duty today. Two till eleven. Same as yesterday. The country club looks chill as expected. Not crowded. But also not too quiet.

A couple of regulars are killing time on the finely trimmed grass. Mostly old-school Italian businessmen affiliated with the owner: Ignazio Tomassini.

Mr. Tomassini is my supervisor's boss' boss. A big-timer like the people who frequent this place. I like to think he and my father are still friends.

Well, my supervisor did say that Ignazio offered to pay for the birthday cake and bouquet. The man's the cool and rich godfather I wish I had growing up. No handwritten note from him on the card, though.

I squint at the flowers and glance down at my old wristwatch. Time for my first break. I log off and tap the switch below the desktop screen.

"Later, friend," I tell the cake as if it's got ears. "Hey. I'll be back in 15." I back away from the receptionist desk and step closer to my co-worker. "Alina."

Like always, her dead eyes are glued to her phone. She's a few years older than me and part Russian, but also fluent in Italian. Alina's bleach blonde ponytail jerks slightly when she gives me a nod and nothing more.

"Nice talking," I mutter as I make my way to the back of the lobby. I don't have any real friends here, which is mostly why I don't like hanging out in the employee lounge.

Anyway, it's quieter and more peaceful out here. No eavesdropping ears or watchful eyes. Wherever I look, the view's picturesque, and I feel more like myself here. Alone. Just sorting my thoughts.

The cool breeze nips at my face and exposed arms. I draw in a breath, just staring at the horizon. Behind the hills, the tranquil lake shimmers under the dimming afternoon sun.

I'm still in awe of the scenic beauty of this place, like the first time I've seen every side of it. Fresh air. Lots of green. Lots of space. Vibrant flowers here and there.

Although this property is almost my age, it still looks up to par. It's well-managed throughout the year because the Tomassinis have more than enough money to keep this club running until whenever they want to. Some days the fact makes me wish the Tomassinis adopted me after my parents died in a car crash or something.

Someone's calling. I fish my phone from my side pocket as it vibrates underneath my pencil skirt. I hope it's not someone from the bank. "Hey, Ma," I say after taking the call.

"Honey, where are you?" my mom asks, her frail voice on the other line a bit nasal. "Sephie?"

I nearly wince at the nickname. "Still at work. What's up?"

"Did you get your dad's texts? He's been trying to reach you."

"No. Why?" My breathing halts. Did something happen to them?

"He wants to talk to you about, erm, a few things. Happy birthday, sweetie."

"Thanks." I pull my phone away from my ear and smile at her gentler tone, then switch the call to speaker mode.

"You really can't come home?"

"I'm working till Sunday night."

"Just take a sick leave tomorrow."

"I can't, Ma. No one's gonna cover my shifts." I sigh when she mutters something in Italian. "Hey," I say in a calmer voice, "I'm fine. They gave me a bouquet and cake. I'll just bring what's left of it back to the apartment."

"Sweetheart, it's your birthday. Come home for a bit," my workaholic mother encourages in a fairly somber tone. "We miss you."

"Miss you, too."

"You work too much."

"Because I have to," I want to say. I press my tongue on the roof of my mouth instead. "Sorry. I just can't this weekend. Where's Dad?"

"Probably stitching up his patient. But he said he's leaving the clinic in an hour."

"You're home?" I ask while two of our wealthiest clients practice their backswing on the other side of the green.

"Mm-hmm. Just got back from the bank," my mom replies, mumbling her words.

"Bank? Why?" I hold my breath. The last thing I want her to say: she went bank-hopping again for a loan. Another loan to pay off most of our old debts. "Ma..."

"We... Your dad and I... We were just thinking about getting another loan."

Shit. How much this time? Now my mother sounds anxious. Preoccupied. "Did you?" I close my eyes. "Tsk. Ma..."

"Honey, you know we have to."

I restrain a sigh as my toes curl in my navy blue heels. Shit. We're definitely in big trouble. "Fine." Ugh. There's no point arguing with her now. "I guess I'm not quitting this year." As if I have a choice.

My mom diverts the conversation while I pretend I'm way calmer than how I really feel. We chat about her day and how my dad's holding up.

I don't mention the disappointment I feel about possibly working for the Tomassinis for another decade just to pay off some of my parents' outstanding balances and the growing interest. They're already stressed enough.

For now, the easiest, quickest way to get that kind of money is to take my online side-hustle to the next level.

The real challenge? I need to make that happen without my family ever finding out.

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I go back to my post before my break is up.

Seeing Ignazio Tomassini standing beside my supervisor leaves me speechless. They're next to Alina. The two older men are speaking Italian, looking pretty engrossed in the report on the desktop screen.

What numbers are they looking at? This month's CSAT data? Recent complaints from clients?

My legs feel stiff as I man the front desk. I straighten my posture, log back into my account, and paste a small smile on my lips in case Mr. Tomassini glances my way. I should thank him for the cake and flowers. They don't look cheap at all.

I've just finished checking our updated weekend schedule when I hear the man's throaty chuckle.

Ignazio must be laughing at something Alina said in her accent. She speaks Italian but not better than I do, which Ignazio probably finds endearing in a way. "Seraphine, happy birthday," he greets in his jovial baritone as he stands before me, his tan and hairy forearms resting on the edge of the front desk.

To match his enthusiasm, I give him a big smile and slightly bow. "Grazie, Signore. Bello vederti." [Thank you, Sir. Great to see you.]

"Sei bellisima. Occupata, mia cara?" [You look beautiful. You busy, my dear?]

"No, Signore."

For the next few minutes, we chat about our work schedule and my parents. Then Ignazio glances down at the untouched birthday cake and my blouse. A grin reveals thin creases around his jowls, as if he appreciates how I look in our new uniform.

Like always, he looks well-dressed and ready for anything. Slicked back hair. Broad shoulders. Muscular arms. Dark and thick beard. Strong jawline.

Still handsome despite the graying hair above his ears. The designer clothes and his gold watch only reveal a tiny fraction of his family's wealth. Some would say he's the Italian-born-and-bred version of "zaddy", and I won't argue.

I'm not crushing on him, though, contrary to what my co-workers have been feeding the rumor mill. The man's too old for me, and very much married.

My heart only jumps back to life whenever I catch a glimpse of his son. Ignazio's only son and heir.

Dominico. My future husband.

We'll get married here in Italy. Somewhere private and romantic. Someday. Then we'll buy a house. Have cute babies. Raise our kids in a peaceful town and make thousands of beautiful memories together...

Dominico Tomassini is going to be my knight in shining armor. My Prince Charming. My soon-to-be happily ever after...

He just doesn't know it yet.

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The universe seems to enjoy testing my conviction about staying in this country. Dunno why, but, it probably has something to do with my recent career choices.

I'm no longer just an online sex worker by night. After that quick meeting with Ignazio and my co-workers, my day job now includes working as a bartender slash waitress at his parties.

The first will be his yacht party off the coast of Ilfonzo. Although my supervisor did say I'm just gonna be serving food and drinks to some guests for two nights, I highly doubt he didn't mean Ignazio will be paying us extra to "entertain" the guests on his yacht all night.

"Seraphine, ti vedro lì?" [Seraphine, see you there?] Ignazio grins at me as he walks out of the conference room with his younger assistant and my supervisor.

"Certo. Grazie, Signore." [Of course. Thank you, Sir.] I give Mr. Tomassini a quick bow and make my way back to the front desk. "Show up with a smile. Tend the bar. Get paid. Go home," I murmur to myself once they're all out of earshot.

Despite my hesitation, a part of me couldn't say no to Ignazio's offer of a 25-euros-an-hour weekend gig. I mean, he's still the big boss.

Saying no to him could be grounds for insubordination. No matter how risky working on his yacht will be. There'll be security staff on the boat, though, including his bodyguards. Men like him don't just throw parties without bodyguards.

Ugh. I don't know what to wear. I just know we're supposed to show up in something light and tight-fitting. Beige or maroon. Ignazio's favorite colors, perhaps.

As the hours pass, the sky darkens and the air turns nippy. I log off at ten past eleven. I grab my purse and put on my coat.

Now I just have to go back to the apartment, pack up some toiletries, then get some sleep after I find the right outfit. Something a little sexy. But not too revealing.

I got a new job to slay.

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Mr. Tomassini's yacht party isn't as extravagant as I expected. It's pretty low-key actually.

No outrageous six-course gourmet dinner. No crazy fireworks or anything. Not even 20 guests.

It's a big boat. High-end. Every piece of furniture on this yacht looks brand new and expensive. Like the food and drinks we served tonight. It's not a megayacht, but spacious enough for 30 people.

It's almost two in the morning, the moon barely visible behind the huge clouds. The muffled chatter, laughter, and club music must be coming from the guests still hanging out by the pool on the upper deck. The rest must've retreated into the cabins already.

I can't leave this bar just yet. I'm not supposed to clean up before three. I won't get paid in full tomorrow if I don't do this job properly. I'm practically alone down here, just minding my own business.

Not sure why I feel antsy. Something just doesn't feel right. But my phone gives me some ideas to distract myself. I opt for a quick chat with a stranger to pass the time.

No effort necessary. "Angelx30" is of course trying to sext with me. I'm unusually anxious and bored, so I bite his bait.

Not sure why I feel too comfortable flirting with him, even sharing some of my personal information. It's the anonymity, I suppose.

Like me, he lives here in Italy, he said. Maybe around my age. Or a little older.

I don't really mind. I like how there's no communication barrier as much as I enjoy our more than friendly banters. Feels nice to be appreciated and pursued every once in a while. Even though I know he's just chatting me up for new nudes.

Well, semi-nudes. I don't give a shit if he sends me a million bucks right now. I'm not sending HD photos of my coochie to anyone. Ever.

If the big boss finds out about my secret online side-job, the management won't hesitate to fire me. I work at a family-friendly establishment, and my face is all over their marketing brochures.

When "Angelx30" doesn't reply to my last message, I drop my phone into my handbag and grab a rag. "Okay. Chill out. Nobody knows. Besides, you're not actually hooking up with anyone."

No one needs to know.

"Right now you're just slinging drinks to filthy rich strangers," I mutter to myself. I wipe some drops of tequila off the leather stools, feeling a bit nauseous.

Not because we're miles away from the coastline and the yacht's been swaying lightly the past few hours. I didn't sleep much last night, for a number of reasons I don't even wanna think about.

"Quit whining." I return to my spot behind the bar. I should be grateful. For being alive. Young. Healthy. Employed. For having a steady job and a few side hustles keeping me and my family afloat. I shouldn't be complaining about my life.

Two nights. That's it.

"Do your job. Get paid. Go home." I take deep breaths, shrugging off a nagging feeling telling me I'm lacking control of my life. I'm putting away some used shot glasses when my peripheral vision catches a familiar face.

Oh shit.

No! This can't be happening.

Dominico? When did he get here?

Crap! I look like a two-dollar hooker in this old mesh dress and drugstore makeup. I don't wear much, but, this is definitely not the right moment or place for our first ever introduction.

It's ridiculously humid out here, so I took off my coat and knee-length boots an hour ago. Now I look like I belong on a stage with a shiny pole.

Darn it! Why? Why tonight? Why does he have to be here, too?

I mean, I had a feeling he would show up with his cousins, even though I didn't see him anywhere during dinner, mingling with any of the guests or anyone familiar.

Where was he all evening?

It's his family's brand new yacht, but the guy doesn't even look remotely excited to be here. Why's he glaring at his phone? Now he looks like he wants to punch the wall.

A bit overdressed for a boat party, Dominico lingers beside the messy pool table, alone and scowling at his phone. The table's about ten steps away.

My stomach's already forming knots. I don't think I can talk to him without stuttering like a total mess. I already feel like an idiot just for wearing this outfit.

Glancing around, looking for another familiar face, I try to keep my legs and breathing steady. "Get it together. It's no big deal. No big deal," I murmur to myself. I can't hide or collapse behind this small bar. The clock says I'm still working.

His cousins and his dad are nowhere to be found. I only see two security guards in the corner, killing time while chatting in Italian.

Dominico looks as if he just ended an office meeting. Why's he here? From what I've gathered, he's not much of a partygoer.

Matching his moccasins, a long-sleeved shirt complements his straight-cut pants. They're darker than his wavy hair that reaches his cleft chin. The clothes aren't loose, but they hide his muscles well.

I know he's got an athlete's body. I've watched him play tennis with his cousins twice.

Where's he going?

I toss the rag away and spray rubbing alcohol all over my hands. They probably smell like wet towels. "Eww." My breath hitches when his firm steps veer towards the bar. Towards me?

I clench my jaw. My legs feel wobbly. I feel like I'm gonna vomit.

Shit! Not good. Not good at all.

Keeping my head down, I pretend to be busy with something while he approaches the edge of the bar. I nearly choke on my own saliva when we finally make eye contact.

I give him a smile as he settles himself on one of the stools. Now we're merely two feet apart. I can smell his minty cologne.

Or is it his shampoo? The soap he uses? It's not too strong or faint. Just the right amount of intoxicating. Fragrant yet still masculine.

Gosh. If he takes another step closer, I'll definitely pass out.

But he stays. The guy's sitting right in front of me! Maybe he wants a drink?

I gotta ask, at least. I clear my throat as noiselessly as possible and put on my friendliest smile. "Posso portarle qualcosa, Signore?" [Can I get you anything, Sir?]

"Whiskey. On the rocks."

"Sure." I grab the most expensive whiskey on the shelf. My armpits and back feel sweaty. Good thing I managed to speak Italian without my voice cracking.

"Thanks."

"No problem." I glance away from his steady gaze and grab a clean glass. Is he staring at my face?

Dominico puts his phone down when I serve him his whiskey.

"Here you go."

A slight frown wrinkles the tan skin above his brows. They're dark but not too thick, like his hair. "You drink?"

"Uh..." Why's he asking? 'Cause I look like a party girl? "Not really," I finally say after staring at him for about five seconds like I didn't understand English.

"Nice to know." He looks me up and down. "Make it two, will ya?"

Shit. That voice and accent... I feel like I'm about to melt. Tonight's not the first time I've heard his deep and fairly raspy voice. I heard him speak English when I first saw him at the country club, but I didn't expect him to be this fluent.

Most Italians I've met have thick and regional accents. Dominico almost sounds like he lived in America for a while. Is his mother from the US? Canadian? Did he grow up in another country?

I don't know much about his childhood. I just know his dad's family proudly hails from Florence, and his mother's a foreigner. Non-European, as far as I recall.

Faking another smile, I pour whiskey into a different glass and slide it beside his first. "Enjoy your drink, Sir." I step away from him and grab the rag again.

Distraction. I need to distract myself from his gorgeous face and his deep-set, soul-gripping eyes. They look a pale shade of green with light brown specks around his pupils. I glance down at his manly hands.

No wedding band or tan lines—enough proof he's still a bachelor. "That's not part of your job."

Clasping the damp rag, I straighten up and face him again. I can't help but stare into his eyes.

Did he just initiate another conversation with me? Why? Did he mean, I don't look the least bit qualified for this gig?

I press my lips together and fold the rag, trying my best to look calm. "It's fine." I put on another smile. "Not busy with anything, as you can see. Happy to help out."

"You're not being paid to clean." Dominico takes a sip of his drink.

"I really don't mind."

Before he can say anything else, his buzzing phone steals his attention.

Thank goodness. I grip the rag and fling skeptic glances at him. There's a natural ease in the way the fine lines on his angular face deepen. Almost like frowning is his default.

I don't respond to him, because I actually don't know what to say. I can only make guesses as to why he seems upset and more brooding than last time he visited the country club.

The guy's acting like I've done something annoying. Does he always talk to their employees this way?

Gee. I hope not. Besides, he's not my boss; his father is. But I shouldn't get pissed off by this guy's attitude.

Maybe he's just having a shitty day. Or does he know I'm rather unqualified for this bartending job? That I've only tried this once?

Maybe he knows I just work behind a desk, and that my receptionist job has been my only source of income since I dropped out of college. Aside from my top secret part-time job, that is.

So, he remembers me? From the country club? Is that why he's making small talk? Or does he think I'm a...

Did his father tell him I'm one of the escorts?

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