“You have so many messages,” he says cheerfully, his fingers moving across the screen with practiced efficiency. “People are very worried about you. It’s sweet, really. All these tough, dangerous men fretting like concerned mothers.”
I watch in growing horror as he types something, sends it, then moves on to the next message. He’s responding to my texts. Pretending to be me. The casual violation of privacy is staggering, but what’s worse is how natural he looks doing it, like this is just another normal morning activity. As if answering someone else’s phone is as routine as brushing your teeth.
“What are you telling them?” I demand, pulling against the restraints hard enough to make the metal bite into my wrists.
“That you’re taking a well-deserved break,” Ginni replies without missing a beat, his tone suggesting this is perfectly reasonable. “That you’ve gone away for a while to clear your head after all that stress with the Petrov situation. Very believable, considering how wound up you’ve been lately. Everyone’s being very understanding.”
He shows me the screen, and I read a text conversation with Dante. The response Ginni sent is so perfectly in my voice that for a moment I wonder if I actually wrote it myself and forgot. He’s captured everything. The way I write, my sense of humor, even the specific abbreviations I use. It’s uncanny and deeply unsettling.
“You sound exactly like me,” I say, unable to keep the amazement out of my voice despite my horror.
“I should hope so,” Ginni says with a pleased smile that transforms his entire face. “I’ve been studying your communication style for years. The way you phrase things, your sense of humor, how formal or casual you get depending on who you’re talking to. How you use punctuation differently when you’re stressed versus relaxed. It’s all very systematic once you understand the patterns.”
Years. He’s been analyzing my texts for years, cataloguing my personality like some kind of behavioral scientist. Building a psychological profile that’s apparently so accurate he can impersonate me flawlessly.
The implications are staggering. How many of my conversations has he been monitoring? How much of my private life has he been dissecting and analyzing? The thought makes my skin crawl, but there’s also a grudging admiration for the sheer scope of his preparation.
“Here’s one from Dario,” Ginni continues, opening another message. “He’s checking in, wants to know if you need anything during your vacation. Very thoughtful of him.”
He types a response, reads it over, then shows it to me before sending. It’s perfect. Exactly what I would have said, down to the casual mention of a book I’ve been meaning to read and a joke about Molly’s latest interior design obsession.
“How do you know about the book?” I ask, genuinely curious despite myself.
“You mentioned it to Marco,” Ginni replies without hesitation. “You said you’d been meaning to read that biography of Churchill but kept getting distracted by work. It was a throwaway comment, but I file everything away. You never know what details might be useful later.”
The casual admission that he’s been cataloguing every aspect of my life for years should terrify me more than it does. Butwatching him work, seeing the meticulous attention to detail, I can’t help but be impressed by the sheer competence of it all.
An email notification pops up, and Ginni opens it immediately. His eyes light up with interest as he scans the content. It’s from my club manager, Keith, and I can see it’s marked urgent with multiple red exclamation points.
“Oh, this is interesting,” Ginni murmurs, settling back against the pillows to read more carefully. “Problem with the sound system for tonight’s event. The main speakers are completely dead, and the backup system isn’t powerful enough for the crowd they’re expecting. He’s asking what you want to do, and he sounds rather panicked.”
I feel a familiar spike of stress. This is exactly the kind of crisis that always seems to happen at the worst possible time. Tonight’s event is a big one. The highlight of our calendar. A lot of money is going to be laundered through the bar. If people leave early, it’s a fucking disaster.
Keith has been with me for three years, and he’s good at his job, but he’s not particularly creative under pressure. He follows protocols well but struggles with improvisation when things go sideways.
But before I can even begin to think through potential solutions, Ginni’s fingers are flying across the screen. He types with a kind of focused intensity that wouldn’t look out of place in a military operation or a surgical procedure.
As he works, his brow furrows in concentration, and it definitely doesn’t look cute. I’m not daft enough to think that.
“There,” he says after maybe thirty seconds, setting the phone aside with obvious satisfaction. “All sorted. Keith should have everything he needs now.”
“What did you tell him?” I ask, genuinely curious despite the circumstances.
Ginni picks up the phone again and reads his response aloud, his voice taking on the same cadence and tone I use in professional communications.
“Contact Meridian Audio on Brick Lane immediately. Tell them it’s for Carlo Benedetti and you need their premium portable system delivered and set up by six PM. They owe me a favor from last year’s New Year’s Eve event when their driver nearly got robbed and I personally escorted him to the venue. If they give you any trouble about short notice, mention the Williams wedding situation where I recommended them despite their higher prices, and they’ll prioritize it. Also, have them bring Danny specifically for setup, he knows our acoustics and can optimize the sound for the space. Charge everything to account seven seven four, and tell Danny there’s a bonus if everything’s perfect by seven.”
I stare at him, completely speechless. It’s a perfect solution, one that addresses every aspect of the problem while leveraging relationships I’d completely forgotten about. I never would have thought of Meridian Audio, and I definitely wouldn’t have remembered the Williams wedding leverage or the specific details about their driver nearly getting robbed. Most importantly, I wouldn’t have thought to request Danny specifically. He’s their best technician, but I’ve only worked with him once.
“How did you...” I start, then trail off because I don’t even know how to finish the question.
“I pay attention,” Ginni says simply, but there’s something almost predatory in his expression now. “I know your business almost as well as you do. Who your suppliers are, which ones owe you favors, who has the best equipment, which technicians understand your setup. I’ve been watching and learning for a very long time, Carlo. Years of collecting information, building relationships, understanding how everything fits together.”
The casual way he says it makes my blood run cold. This isn’t just obsession with me personally. He’s been studying every aspect of my life, my business, my relationships. Building a comprehensive map of my entire existence like some kind of corporate spy.
“You’ve been spying on my business dealings?” I ask.
“Spying is such an ugly word,” Ginni replies with a delicate shrug. “I prefer to think of it as... research. Due diligence. When you’re planning to spend your life with someone, you want to understand all the important parts of their world.”
