Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
I carry the tray from the table, wondering what the heck that was about. I’ve got enough to worry about. I don’t need strange questions from intimidating men.
“Were you talking to Viktor Barinov?” A voice comes from behind me.
“You almost made me drop my tray! Springing up like a darn bucking bronco.”
I gasp when I realize what I’ve said… to my supervisor. I almost let out a prayer.
“It’s nice to know you’re human,” she says with a chuckle.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
I want to ask her why she’s suddenly being nice to me.
“I should get back to it,” I mutter.
“Wait – hold on a sec. How do you know Viktor Barinov?”
“I thought we were busy.”
“Hey, this is work related. Sorta.” She gets closer.
“I don’t know who he is. He only wanted to know how long I’ve worked here.”
“Huh, I wonder why,” she mumbles to herself,
“Who is he?” I ask.
“You don’t know what kind of restaurant this is, do ya, honey?”
“Maybe not,” I admit.
“Aw, you’re precious. Maybe. No, you’re lost. That man was Viktor Barinov, the leader of the Bratva in this little town, and on the other side, you’ve got Nico Moretti.” She makes air quotes. “He’s a hedge fund manager if you can work that one out.”
“Is he in the mob?”
“Bingo.”
I grind my teeth if frustration and a memory sucker punches me. I’m twelve years old, and Mom is tall, healthy, strong, and smiling as she brushes hair from my face. “Don’t you grind those pearly whites or there will be nothing left but angel dust.” I can hear my laughter in response almost feel the belly cramps from my incessant giggles. That was before they took her from me.
“Is this a mob restaurant？”
Rachael giggles. “Not as such. But we’re friendly to them, and they’re friendly to us. I just thought you should know. Now…”
She makes eyes at the door. Since it’s clear I’m not connected to them, she seems less interested in me now. I suppose I’m not worth her respect since I’m not a friend of the oh-so-impressive Barinov's. And who else was it – Nico Moretti, that was it.
I almost turn away, tell her I quit, leave, and never come back. A mob bar. But Mom wouldn’t want me to be homeless. It’s not even the idea of sleeping on the street that terrifies me. It’s knowing I’d lose all my hard work, with no money for a storage unit.
“I’ll get back to work.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
As I cross the restaurant, I hear one of the Russians say, “We can always take him out.”
Sure, he could be talking about arranging a surprise party for someone, but I doubt it. I don’t want to think about it. I just need to get through my shift, then figure out what to do. I could get a new job, but I’m determined to keep this one.
My path on the way back takes me past the tall stylish man’s table. He smirks at me. And you know what? I make eyes back at him, too. I like that glint in his eyes, catching the light just so. I should’ve added that to the sketch.
“Nico,” the man opposite him says.
I stop walking for a moment, before remembering the number one rule to waitressing: don’t stop or somebody will give you something to do. But the shock is severe.
He’s Nico.
Okay, that’s easy, then. I just need to forget we ever spoke. He’s a stranger, so no big deal.
But fate has other ideas. As I walk past his table, I trip on a toy some kid has helpfully left in the aisle. I suppose this is an extra clumsy day for me. I find my footing, but the movement causes my notebook to tumble out of my back pocket.
I quickly turn, look down… at Nico with it in his hands, looking down at his own face.
“Is that… you?” the woman beside him says, a glamorous older woman drenched in jewelry with an intelligent to her eyes.
“Me？” Nico says, chuckling nervously. “I’m sure it’s not.”
“I-I wouldn’t have time to sketch on a busy night like this,” I stutter.
Nico stares down at the sketch, his features staring through the charcoal. “The background is different,” he says. “That’s how you know it’s not me.”
“You know it’s not you because I told you so,” I say. “Please, give it back.”
“Feisty,” the other man mutters.
Nico turns to him with a cold look. “She’s fine. It’s her property.”
“Okay, Prince Charming.” The other man chuckles, pouring himself a whiskey.
“Would you like me to put it on the tray?” Nico asks with a smirk.
He’s got a real handsome, arrogant thing going on, like he’s playing the role of an A-hole just to tease, to bother me, and I like it. It’s fun. I want to banter back with him.
“Or maybe just slip it in your pocket?” he says.