Chapter 3 - The Scullery of the Grand Sovereign
The service entrance of the Grand Sovereign Hotel smelled of hot grease, bleach, and roasting beef. Elena collapsed against the concrete delivery ramp, her teeth chattering so hard they rattled inside her skull. The storm had washed away her dignity, leaving her covered in river slime, blood, and grime.
""Holy mother of God! What crawled in here?""
A stout woman in a stained white apron dropped a crate of heads of cabbage onto the steel prep table. Mrs. Gable, the banquet hall's head scullery matron, stared down at Elena with sharp, suspicious eyes. ""Get up from there, girl! The back alley isn't a flophouse for junkies! We’ve got the Don’s grand banquet tonight, and security will shoot you on sight if they catch you lurking near the freight lifts.""
""Please,"" Elena whispered, her throat raw and cracked. ""I just need... an apron. Warmth. Please don't call the lobby.""
Mrs. Gable frowned, leaning closer. Through the dried river silt and streaks of blood, she recognized the delicate bone structure and the costly remnants of the cashmere coat now soaked in sewage. In this city, working-class kitchen staff survived by keeping their mouths shut when high-society runaways washed up on their shores. ""Lost your protector, did you? Some high-roller threw you out before the big show?""
""Something like that,"" Elena managed to say, pulling herself up with trembling arms. She looked down at her hands. The deep cuts from the broken glass on the pier were infected with harbor filth, throbbing with a sickening heat. White bone peeked through the torn flesh of her right knuckles.
""Sit down before you drop dead on my sanitized tile,"" Mrs. Gable muttered, grabbing a first-aid kit from the metal wall locker. She didn't ask further questions. With rough, efficient movements, the older woman splashed iodine over the open wounds. Elena squeezed her eyes shut, digging her fingernails into the wooden bench to choke down a scream. Mrs. Gable wrapped thick white medical gauze around both of her hands, winding it tightly from the palms up to the wrists until Elena’s hands looked like crude, padded clubs.
""There. That will keep you from bleeding into the soup,"" Mrs. Gable said, tossing a rough gray server’s uniform and a stained white apron onto Elena’s lap. ""You want to hide from whoever chased you into that river? Put these on and pick up a silver tray. Albert’s personal guests are arriving upstairs. Five hundred mob bosses, politicians, and dirty cops. The house staff stays along the perimeter walls. You do not speak. You do not make eye contact. You keep the champagne flutes filled and the ash trays cleared. When the night ends, you slip out the service docks with twenty dollars in your pocket.""
Elena pulled the coarse uniform over her battered frame, discarding the ruined luxury that had nearly cost her life. She tucked her damp hair beneath a black kitchen cap, pulling the brim low over her bruised cheekbones.
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""Remember,"" Mrs. Gable warned as she shoved a heavy tray of crystal glasses into Elena’s bandaged fingers, ""the underworld doesn't look at the help. To them, we are furniture. Keep your head bowed, and you're invisible. Lift your chin, and you're dead.""
Elena tightened her grip around the silver handles, ignoring the throbbing fire in her fingers. ""I don't plan on being invisible tonight, Mrs. Gable.""
