The job market is so bad that abduction by the mafia feels like upward mobility.

The real question is why the mafia would bother with you. You’re a broke orphan with a gleaming new degree and 20 cover letters to write. One amicable but fruitless interview later, you stepped out of a corporate skyscraper and caught a blow to the back of your skull. Now you’ve waken up in a speeding car with duct tape clamped over your mouth.

“The tape stays,” the driver says without inflection. “I lack the bandwidth for half-formed questions. There’s a pistol under your seat. Pick it up.”

Your eyes flick to his profile, the carved jaw, the corded neck, the black ink creeping from the base of his hand. A gun, in this moment, is better than no gun. You fumble for it as he takes a brutal corner, your organs sloshing in your abdomen, the ache in your skull blooming like sunrise. You grab it, press-check it, and see the gold rim of a chambered round.

“2 o’clock,” he instructs. “The biker. Window down. Fire.”

You lower the glass. Wind rushes in and slaps the daze out of your head. A thought arrives late: why not turn and shoot him instead? Just as you start to weigh it, the biker, eyes locked with yours, pulls something from his waistband and raises it toward your head. As if triggered, your finger squeezes the trigger. The shot cracks. The bike veers. Flesh meets asphalt. You are not even sure if your bullet has found its way.

“Brava,” he cheers you in that same bone-dry tone, “Guarda come se la cava. Now raise the window before you catch a chill—”

He doesn’t finish, because the muzzle of your Glock 19 presses into his temple.

“See?” he says, voice unaltered. “That right there. That’s the spirit required to survive, yes. But we’ll need to work on your ability to distinguish friend from foe.”

He drives on, apparently unfazed, though the ride smooths beneath your aim. You wonder if he’s worried that you’ll get trigger-happy fresh off your first success.

“Let’s dispense with the obvious. Yes, you’re in trouble. No, you’re not an orphan. You’re the illegitimate daughter of Capo Matteo Leonetti, recently deceased. His son Luca was gutted shortly after. That leaves you, the sole heir to the entire Leonetti empire. Congratulations.”

He takes the next turn without waiting for a reaction.

“Yes, I intend to help you. No, there’s no way out. And no, I don’t care if you believe me.”

The car descends into an underground garage beneath some luxury Manhattan high-rise. He parks, exits, circles the vehicle to open your door, and yanks the tape from your mouth with thoughtless efficiency, something you’d nearly forgotten was still there.

“Valerio Cavani,” he introduces himself. “The consigliere of the Leonetti family. Not at your service. Lower the weapon before I wrestle you to the ground.”