The alarm went off at six.
Rosalina silenced it before it could wake Brian.
She lay still for exactly three seconds — the only three seconds of the day that belonged entirely to her — then she sat up, swung her feet to the cold floor, and got on with it.
The apartment was small and always would be. Two bedrooms that were really one bedroom and a generous storage room, a kitchen where the third burner didn't work, windows that let in more noise than light. But it was theirs. Hers and Brian's and Betty's, and on most mornings that was enough.
She moved through the apartment quietly, the way she had learned to exist in spaces — carefully, taking up as little as possible.
The bathroom mirror showed her exactly what she expected. Dark circles she would have to work with. Hair that had its own agenda. A face her mother had once called too expressive for your own good, Rosie — everything you feel just sits right there for the world to see.
She missed her mother every single day.
She did her makeup in fifteen minutes, twisted her hair up neatly, and put on the black pencil skirt and white blouse she had pressed the night before. Professional. Serious. The kind of outfit that said I belong here even when every other thing in her life said otherwise.
Back in the kitchen she made tea, cut an apple into slices the way Brian liked, and left it covered on the counter with a note.
Gone for the interview. Betty will drop you at school. Eat the apple. I mean it. — Rosie
She stared at the note for a moment then added:
I love you. Don't be dramatic about the apple.
She picked up her bag, checked the address on her phone for the fourth time, and stepped out into the Milan morning.
The city was already alive.
Milan in the early morning had a particular kind of energy — purposeful, elegant, slightly impatient, like a beautifully dressed woman who had somewhere important to be and didn't intend to wait for anyone. Rosalina had lived here all her life and still found herself caught off guard by it sometimes. The cobblestones and the glass towers. The old and the ruthlessly new existing side by side without apology.
She took the metro, stood the whole way, and reviewed the research she had done the night before.
Salvatore Group. Founded Twenty-Five years ago by Romano Salvatore. Headquarters Milan. Sixty floors. Operations spanning finance, real estate, luxury hospitality, private security. The legitimate face of an empire that the internet hinted had other dimensions — quieter ones, the kind that didn't appear in annual reports.
She had chosen not to think too hard about those dimensions.
She needed this job.
Brian needed this job.
The metro doors opened and she stepped out into the morning light.
The Salvatore Group headquarters did not ask you how you were doing.
It rose sixty floors above the Via Montenapoleone like a declaration — all dark glass and severe angles, the kind of building designed specifically to make people feel small before they reached the door. The name was carved into the black stone entrance in letters that required no explanation.
SALVATORE.
Rosalina stood on the pavement across the street and looked up at it.
Betty had applied for this job without telling her. Had filled out the entire application, uploaded Rosalina's CV, written a cover letter — a good one Rosie, I looked up examples — and submitted everything before mentioning it casually over dinner three weeks ago with the energy of someone who had done nothing remarkable whatsoever.
They'll never call, Rosalina had said.
They had called the next morning.
She took one breath. Straightened her spine — a habit so old she no longer noticed she was doing it — and crossed the street.
The lobby was marble and silence and the particular cold of places that took themselves very seriously.
Everything was dark and precise. The floors gleamed. The staff moved with the quiet efficiency of people who understood that noise was not welcome here. Two security guards stood at the entrance and assessed her with the kind of eyes that assessed everything.
Rosalina smiled at them.
Neither of them smiled back.
Friendly place, she thought, and approached the reception desk.
The receptionist looked up. Immaculate. Unsmiling.
"Rosalina Evans," Rosalina said, keeping her voice steady. "I have a nine o'clock interview. Personal assistant position."
The receptionist checked her screen, picked up her phone, and spoke quietly into it. Then she looked back up.
"Someone will be down to collect you shortly. Please take a seat."
Rosalina sat. Folded her hands. Did not fidget.
She was still not fidgeting four minutes later when the elevator opened and a woman walked out.
She was perhaps in her early thirties, neat and warm in a way that felt slightly out of place in the severe lobby, with kind eyes and the unhurried walk of someone comfortable in their own skin. She spotted Rosalina immediately and her face opened into a genuine smile.
"Rosalina Evans?" She extended her hand. "I'm Clara Russo. Mr. Salvatore's current PA."
Rosalina stood and shook it. "It's lovely to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine." Clara's handshake was firm and warm. "I'll take you up to the fifty-ninth floor. The interview panel is already assembled." She gestured toward the elevator bank and they walked together.
"Are you nervous?" Clara asked, not unkindly.
"A little," Rosalina admitted. Then honesty overtook her as it usually did. "A lot, actually."
Clara laughed — a real one. "That's normal. This building is designed to be intimidating. Don't let it get inside your head." She pressed the button for fifty-nine. "The panel is straightforward. They want to see that you're organised, composed under pressure, and able to handle a demanding schedule."
"Demanding how?"
Clara glanced at her sideways with something that might have been amusement. "Mr. Salvatore operates at a particular pace. He expects precision. Discretion. Anticipation." A small pause. "He doesn't explain himself twice."
Rosalina absorbed this. "Is he difficult?"
Clara considered the question with the care of someone choosing words deliberately. "He is exacting," she said finally. "But he is fair. Whatever you do — don't take the silences personally. He's not being rude. That's simply how he is."
The elevator opened onto the fifty-ninth floor.
"One more thing," Clara said quietly as they stepped out. Her voice was kind but serious. "He can read people. Very quickly. Don't try to be what you think he wants. Just be exactly who you are."
Rosalina thought about that.
Nosy. Talkative. Constitutionally incapable of leaving a silence alone.
Exactly who she was might be a problem.
But she squared her shoulders anyway and followed Clara down the corridor toward the interview room.
She needed this job.
Whatever it cost her, she needed this job.
********