I can totally picture Giovanni living in a place like this. It suits him. I knew he was from money, but seeing his living space just reminds me how different we are. We don't belong in the same world. At all. My basement apartment is a shoe box compared to this place that I'm pretty sure would all fit in just the living room alone.
My father in Chicago is also rich, but the mansion there is old and more of a European traditional house. From the first few years that I lived there before my mother and I ran away, I thought he was the richest person I know.
Someone clears their throat behind me, one of the guards, and I realize I've been gawking too much, so I move forward and follow the direction I was told.
I gently knock on the first door, expecting a voice to tell me to go inside, but there's no response. I wonder if it's an office behind the door. When I knock again and still meet silence, I add, "Gio?"
