Chapter 1 - The Nine-Hour Double Shift, the Scalding Minestrone Spill, and the Terrifying Underworld Don Who Asked the Wrong QuestionNara’s feet felt as though they were bleeding inside her inexpensive rubber-soled shoes.
She was 45 minutes into the 9th hour of a double shift at Trattoria Rossi, an expensive relic in the center of the city that served old money, criminal money, and the territory between them.
Roasted garlic, melting fontina, and costly cologne thickened the dining-room air.
Nara stood beside the swinging kitchen doors waiting for her section’s orders and staring blankly at a stain upon the ceiling.
She was 26, overwhelmed by the medical debt remaining from her mother’s final illness, and functioning after 3 hours of sleep.
Nara believed she lacked the energy to feel fear.
“Table 4.”
Paul appeared beside her.
The manager had sweated through his starched collar and looked close to suffering a heart attack.
“The soup belongs to table 4.”
His voice dropped into a frantic whisper.
“Do not allow it to spill. Do not interrupt the conversation. Place it upon the table, pour the wine, and move away.”
Paul looked directly at her.
“Do you understand?”
Nara examined the large circular booth inside the darkest corner of the restaurant.
Its position gave the occupants an unobstructed view of the front entrance and the emergency exit.
Four men occupied it.
Three were built heavily enough that their tailored suits could not fully conceal the shoulder holsters beneath them.
The 4th man sat at the center.
Dominic Russo did not resemble a monster.
A person passing him upon the street might have mistaken him for an investment manager or an aggressive corporate attorney.
His features were sharp and tired. His dark hair had been swept neatly backward. He possessed a stillness that seemed to increase the weight of the air surrounding him.
Dominic was not speaking.
He listened to the man on his right while turning a heavy crystal water glass slowly between his fingers.
“I know how to serve soup.”
Nara’s voice was flat.
“You do not know him.”
Paul wiped his forehead with a napkin.
“His father died last month. Dominic inherited the family, and the streets are unstable.”
Half the city believed the new leader was weak.
The other half believed he was a psychopath searching for an opportunity to prove himself.
“Become invisible.”
Nara lifted the heavy tray.
The ceramic bowls radiated heat through the cork lining and burned the center of her palm.
She balanced the tray upon her shoulder and crossed the dining room.
Although the restaurant was full, its noise diminished as she approached the booth.
Guests at the neighboring tables lowered their voices and looked nervously toward the Russo party.
Nara focused upon the tabletop.
She wanted no eye contact and no complication.
She wanted to return home, soak her aching feet in Epsom salts, and stare at the wall.
The 3 guards followed every movement when she reached the booth.
It was an instinctive and predatory response.
“Excuse me.”
Nara lowered the tray toward her hip and balanced it across her left arm.
She reached for the 1st bowl with her right hand.
The minestrone had remained beneath the kitchen’s heat lamps for too long.
Its temperature bit sharply into her fingertips and sent pain through her hand.
Nara’s wrist spasmed.
The movement was brief and involuntary.
It was enough.
The bowl tipped.
Time seemed to slow as red broth filled with tomatoes, beans, and pasta passed over the rim.
It missed the table.
The soup struck Dominic’s chest.
It spread across his silk tie, entered the white fabric of his shirt, and soaked the dark wool of his jacket. Hot droplets marked his neck and jaw.
The ceramic bowl left Nara’s fingers and shattered against the mahogany table.
Fragments and the remaining soup fell into Dominic’s lap.
Silence closed over the room.
The man on Dominic’s right stopped speaking with his mouth still open.
The guard across from him stood so quickly that his chair fell backward and struck the floor.
Hands moved beneath jackets.
A holster opened with a metallic sound that seemed as loud as a gunshot.
Nara remained motionless.
Her empty hand was suspended above the table.
The pain inside her fingertips disappeared beneath the cold dread entering her stomach.
She was dead.
The conclusion seemed calm and rational.
She had just attacked the leader of the city’s most violent organization with boiling vegetables.
Someone would take her into an alley and kill her.
Dominic did not move.
His eyes remained closed.
A piece of pasta clung to his left lapel. One drop of red broth moved slowly down his throat.
“Boss.”
A guard drew his weapon halfway from his jacket and looked at Nara as though she were an assassin.
Dominic raised 1 finger.
The movement was no more than an inch.
The guard stopped immediately and left the weapon concealed.
Dominic opened his eyes.
They were dark, unreadable, and fixed upon Nara.
Her lungs refused to expand.
She held the serving tray so tightly that her knuckles whitened.
Nara waited for him to shout, overturn the table, or order her death.
Instead, Dominic reached into his breast pocket with deliberate control.
He passed over the soaked fabric, removed a clean linen handkerchief, and wiped the broth from his neck without breaking eye contact.
Nara’s thoughts moved rapidly.
She needed to apologize, beg, or explain.
The words would not form.
She was too exhausted for a performance.
A cynical weariness entered her as she understood the absurdity.
She was about to die because of a $12 bowl of soup.
Dominic finished cleaning his jacket and examined the ruined suit.
Oil and tomato had destroyed the tailored wool.
He placed the dirty handkerchief upon the table.
When he looked at Nara again, she saw annoyance, calculation, and an unexpected curiosity.
Dominic leaned slightly forward.
His guards tightened around him.
“Did it burn you?”
His low voice was quiet enough that only the people beside the table could hear.
The question was genuine.
Nara blinked.
She had prepared herself for violence or an accusation that someone had sent her.
“What?”
Her voice cracked.
“The broth.”
Dominic nodded toward her right hand.
“The bowl was obviously too hot. I felt it through 2 layers of wool.”
He spoke with patience.
“Did it burn your hand when you dropped it?”
Nara looked down.
Her fingertips had turned bright red and begun to blister.
The skin of her wrist, where the falling soup had splashed, throbbed painfully.
She had unconsciously pressed the hand against her abdomen.
Nara looked back at Dominic and wondered whether the concern was a trick.
“It is fine.”
Her voice was unexpectedly steady.
Shock was giving way to empty defiance.
Dominic studied her.
He saw the darkness beneath her eyes, the tightness of her mouth, and the absence of submission.
People ordinarily begged when they spilled water upon him. They cried and offered money they did not possess to replace damaged clothes.
Nara looked as though she were waiting for a bus she knew would never arrive.
“Leo.”
Dominic did not look away.
The guard upon his left straightened.
“Yes, boss?”
“Go to the kitchen and bring the burn cream from the first-aid kit.”
“Your suit—”
“Leo.”
Dominic spoke the name softly.
Its weight made the larger man flinch.
“Immediately.”
Leo moved quickly toward the kitchen.
Nara remained beside the booth.
“You do not have to do that.”
“You spilled soup because management allows dishes to become dangerously hot.”
Dominic used a napkin upon his lapel.
“You experienced pain. Your body reacted.”
His eyes darkened with a faint suggestion of amusement.
“It was not an assassination attempt.”
Dominic paused.
“Unless it was, in which case you are the least competent contract killer in the city.”
Nara released a brief sound that was partly a scoff and partly a sob.
“If I intended to kill you, I would have used the linguine. It is heavier.”
She regretted the words immediately.
The remaining guards stared openly.
People did not joke with Dominic Russo.
They did not contradict him.
Dominic stopped cleaning the jacket.
For a long moment, he stared at Nara.
Then a rough sound left his chest.
She needed several seconds to recognize laughter.
It sounded unused.
“Linguine.”
Dominic shook his head once.
Paul arrived and nearly slid across the dining-room floor.
“Mr. Russo, I am extremely sorry.”
His words came rapidly.
“She is dismissed. I will replace the suit. Your meal is free, and I will—”
“Paul.”
Dominic’s voice returned to its terrifying calm.
The manager stopped.
“The meal was satisfactory. The soup was excellent.”
Dominic looked toward Nara.
“I had a clumsy moment and knocked it over.”
His gaze remained deliberate.
“Is that not correct?”
Nara understood that he was giving both her and Paul an escape.
“Yes.”
She spoke quietly.
“He knocked it over.”
“My fault entirely.”
Dominic returned his attention to Paul.
“If I discover that you dismissed her because of my clumsiness, I will be disappointed.”
His voice remained level.
“I dislike disappointment.”
Paul’s face became gray.
“Of course. No one will lose employment.”
Leo returned and placed a tube of inexpensive burn cream upon the table.
Dominic slid it toward Nara.
“Apply it.”
He removed a silver money clip and placed 5 $100 bills upon the table.
“For the damage.”
Dominic stood.
The suit smelled strongly of garlic, tomato, and beef stock, but he wore it like armor.
The guards rose and enclosed him.
Before leaving, Dominic stopped.
“What time does your shift end?”
A new surge of fear entered Nara.
Perhaps the mercy had only delayed the punishment.
“Midnight.”
She lied.
Her shift ended at 11:00 p.m.
Dominic tilted his head slightly.
Nara knew he recognized the lie.
“Leave through the rear door tonight.”
May you like
He turned away.
“Not the front.”
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