Ghostly Writer
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The New Job - 10
🕑 Added 2025-03-19 17:51:58 +0000 UTCThe guard gives me a “Ma’am” as I exit the elevator, which I let pass without comment. There’s no way Gagliardi is old enough to be a ‘ma’am’ really, but then again, what’s the alternative? Godmother? Is she even that high enough in the organization?
I stroll past, nodding slightly to confirm I heard him, but otherwise paying him no mind. My—or rather, Amaira’s—office is my destination and I don’t want to dawdle.
Ducking inside, I close the door softly and quickly peek at my first captive. She is, thankfully, still snoring, stuck half-way underneath my desk.
Considering the faux Gagliardi mentioned that he saw me take out Carmella here, I take a look around to see if I missed an obvious camera. I didn’t. Apparently the “sophisticated equipment” I made such an effort to get into the building did, though. So much for that.
I settle into Amaira’s chair and take a moment, thinking about my options. I consider thinking aloud, knowing that at least one person is listening, but then remember the camera I haven’t found. Instead I pull out Amaira’s phone and dial no-one, then put it to my ear to talk.
“You realize there’s a camera in here you missed.”
“Well, shit,” my handler mutters, in a refreshing ‘owning it’ type way.
“Yeah. Laughing boy back in Gagliardi’s office—”
“Saw you. Right. Apologies.”
“What’s done is done. So. What’s the next move? I can’t exactly smuggle out both of these prize turkeys. I could, maybe, get ‘Carmella’ out… if I dressed her in Amaira’s clothes. Which might look a little odd, but could work? Maybe?”
“We don’t see a huge advantage in getting either of them out.”
“Uh, hello? Interrogation? Or whatever you call it these days. ‘Enhanced chats’?”
“Our suggested alternative is that you basically hand both of them over.”
“Give them up?” I lean back in the chair. “I’m listening.”
“You’re Gagliardi. You’re in charge. You just exposed a plot by the Morelli family to infiltrate.”
“How do I explain that I just appeared out of nowhere, fresh-faced and fancy free?”
“You leave. Both of these two will keep overnight, although you might want to tighten the bonds on the ex-Gagliardi. Come back tomorrow as the brave escapee. Then we can regroup and reconsider next steps.”
I considered it for a moment. “I like the way you think. Should work, as long as the real thing doesn’t suddenly make a comeback. Then of course, there’s the possibility that our impersonators talk.”
“You can come back with a very convincing Gagliardi disguise to seal the deal. And remember you’re in charge; whatever happens to them is up to you.”
“That’s true, I am,” I say, looking at Gagliardi’s face dimly reflected in my monitor. “I am one bad-ass girl boss, and what I say goes. Okay. Sold. I guess I’ll talk to you at home, dear.”
“Very funny,” my handler says. I hang up with a chuckle.
///
I push open the door of Amaira’s apartment, this time as a stranger to its walls. The face of Gagliardi is reflected in Amaira’s hall mirror for a moment as I walk by, then stop, turn back and look at it again.
“I just had to see where my star performer lived,” I say quietly in my new voice. I need the practice after all. “Hope you don’t mind. I had a key made.”
I give the mirror a long, slow, seductive look. “I’ve been very interested to see what makes you tick, Amaira. Very interested indeed.”
With a smile, I walk away.
“If you’re quite finished,” the ever-present voice in my ear says, “you have new equipment to check out. Same place as before.”
I slide open the door to Amaira’s hall closet and find another black case. Opening it at her kitchen table, I’m unsurprised to find another copy of Gagliardi’s face, which I presume is supposed to serve as my ‘evidence’. Underneath it however is a whole new body. “Oh, if I must,” I say with a chuckle, pulling it free of the case.
“We figured it’d be better to hedge our bets on this one,” says my invisible handler. “As a bonus, it’s battle-damaged.”
Indeed, across the body of the new suit I note a few convincing looking ‘bruises’ and other scars, presumably inflicted by my vicious Morelli kidnappers. “Very good.”
“Up to you when you change. We think this is the way to go tomorrow, though.”
“Agreed. Does that mean I’m off the clock?”
“Yeah. We’ll be monitoring as usual but otherwise your time is your own.”
I flash back to my enjoyable evening alone with my male handler and a magic wand between my legs. Somehow I don’t think my new, female handler will be as interested; she certainly hasn’t expressed as much.
“A long hot bath and a change of skin, I think. After takeout.”
“Enjoy.”
There’s a soft click as I’m left ‘alone’ for the night.
///
After tipping my delivery boy with both cash and a salacious smile, I feed for the night with Gagliardi’s face and hands lying beside me on the kitchen counter. No reason to spoil a good makeup job with pizza sauce.
After a couple of slices I retire to the bedroom where after a quick change, I reappear as myself, Amaira’s robe over my thin body. I don’t generally spend a lot of time ‘as’ me these days, given how much I’m in demand, but it feels nice to be ‘naked’ for a while. I watch some TV, eat some more pizza, find a nice red to sip on and generally wind down.
The play tomorrow has the potential to get very complicated, very fast. Impersonating the head of any organization is always dangerous, given institutional knowledge. Too many questions and it’ll be obvious something’s up. My plan, so far, is to fake being overcome from my ‘torture’ if anyone presses too hard.
I still need to know what the Gagliardi family are up to—that was why I first infiltrated as Amaira, after all—and while being the head of the firm would seem to be an easy way to get that info, at the same time I’m supposed to know everything already. Maybe I should have leaned on Gagliardi (v1) a little harder to find out her actual location, but I have a feeling that’ll come out in the wash. Even if we get her back, there’s no guarantee she’ll talk, either. Perhaps I can tap-dance my way through this thing and not get killed in the process.
After finishing up the bottle of red and leaving some pizza for breakfast, I slip into my new skin before retiring. Can’t hurt to try it out, and fabrication has fucked up in the past so I always like to double-check their work.
In the bedroom mirror in the dim light, I drop Amaira’s robe to the floor, revealing my new body. Gagliardi’s body. It’s curvy in the right places, likely her Italian heritage combined with some serious exercise. In particular I’m impressed with Gagliardi’s breasts, or rather the recreation of them. I hold them for a moment, feeling the weight, enjoying a pleasing stirring in my groin. Even without fresh makeup or taking care of her hair, she’s attractive to the eye. A sort of cougar-y charm. Part of me wonders how she’d do in a couple of my favorite bars, but that’s the wine talking.
Instead I pull the robe back around my new shoulders, give the mirror a final smile and head for Amaira’s bed.
///
To give the front desk security guy credit, he’s on the phone the moment he sees me half-fall out of the taxi on the other side of the street.
By the time I get to the front door of the building and bang weakly on the glass, he’s out from behind his desk and ready to help ‘Ms. Gagliardi’, opening the door as quick as he can. I fall into his arms, giving him my full weight. He holds me up without much strain, muscles flexing beneath the grey polyester of his security uniform.
“Ms. Gagliardi?!” he says, clearly confused, and not just because ‘Ms. Gagliardi’ left the building last night and gave him a cheery wave. “Are you okay? What happened?”
I mutter and mumble, asking for water. There’s a few moments of chaos as the security guy barks orders, people run and shout and everyone does something, until a chair is brought and a glass of water is pressed into my hand. The chapping of my lips is a prosthetic on top of the prosthetics, so won’t vanish immediately, but adds authenticity to my strained gulps.
“Thank you,” I half-whisper after I down the glass. “I need to get upstairs.”
“Someone’s coming right down, Ms. Gagliardi,” the security guy assures me. I nod weakly and slump back, continuing to push the act.
I’m dressed in a duplicate of a power suit that was observed on Gagliardi a week ago, duly duplicated by fabrication and then professionally ‘roughed up’ by them too. Anyone looking at me would think I had slept in a basement with gruel for every meal, and in my head, they’d be right. My face and hands are covered in streaks of dirt, my wig is an absolute mess, my carefully applied makeup has been carefully ‘cried’ off and I’ve even broken some of the suit’s nails to suggest I clawed at the windows for a while.
I’m a mess. I’m a kidnap victim. And this, I hope, is how I get back into the organization without too many questions getting asked.
A small phalanx of suited goons arrive—they even bring a wheelchair—all of whom are thoroughly confused and concerned on my behalf.
As I’m wheeled toward the elevators, I thank security guy and make a mental note to give the guy a raise. Might as well do some good while I’m wearing this face.
The elevator doors close on me, my wheelchair and my four new best gun-toting friends, as I prepare to step into another life once more.
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