Chapter 1 - The Weight of a Glass
I turned away from table seven, my posture straight, my tray balanced evenly on my palm, but my heart was beating a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Dante Greco.
Just hearing his name in the neighborhood was enough to make merchants lock their doors a minute early. They called him the shadow king of the North End—a man who inherited a legitimate hospitality conglomerate but maintained the old-world iron fist of his grandfather’s syndicate roots.
I headed straight for the bar, grabbing a bottle of San Pellegrino and four crystal glasses. Behind me, the low rumble of male voices drifted across the dining room, cutting through the murmur of the other patrons.
“A beautiful restaurant,” one of the men said in English. “Except for the staff.”
That was Luca Bellandi. I knew his voice—and his reputation. He was Dante’s chief financial fixer, a slick, expensive parasite who wore custom Italian suits and treated everyone who wasn't a billionaire like disposable napkins.
I set the bottles down on a service tray, my jaw tightening. I had spent three years working at La Luna Rossa while finishing my master’s degree in international corporate law at night. I wasn't just a waitress. But to men like Luca, an apron was a permanent classification.
“Don’t drop the glasses, girl,” Luca muttered in rapid Sicilian, switching languages deliberately, assuming no one in the room could understand the regional dialect. “She moves like a stray cat. Give her a ten-dollar bill and she’ll probably clean the floors with her tongue.”
The other two men at the table chuckled, a low, cruel sound.
Dante Greco didn't laugh. I looked up just in time to catch his dark, impenetrable gaze fixed on my face. He didn't smile either, but his eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were trying to solve a puzzle he couldn't quite categorize.
I kept my face completely blank, walking back to table seven with smooth, unhurried steps. I placed the sparkling water in the center of the table, pouring a crystal glass for Dante first, then moving around the circle.
“Here is your San Pellegrino, gentlemen,” I said in crisp, accentless English.
Luca scoffed, leaning back in his leather chair. “And she speaks English too. How impressive for a dishwasher.”
I paused for a fraction of a second, just long enough to let my hand steady over the rim of Luca’s water glass. I looked directly into his eyes, adopting a polite, deferential smile that didn't reach my eyes.
“Is there anything else I can get you, sir?” I asked.
Luca smirked, waving a hand dismissively. “Get away from us. And bring the wine list before I lose my appetite completely.”
“Subito, signore,” I replied in smooth, flawless Palermo-accented Sicilian. “Right away, sir.”
May you like
Luca’s smirk froze dead on his face. The fork in the hand of the man to his left clicked sharply against the ceramic plate. Even Dante Greco’s hand stopped halfway to his glass, his dark eyes snapping back up to my face with sudden, intense clarity.
I didn't wait for them to recover. I turned on my heel and walked back toward the kitchen, leaving a stunned, suffocating silence in my wake.
