Chapter 3 - The Lion’s Den
Tessa stood beside the POS station, gripping a towel tightly in her hand. She watched the dynamic between father and son. Gabriel sat stiffly across from the old man. There was no warmth between them. Only obligation and thick, simmering tension.
"Who is taking this table?" Richard hissed, appearing behind the waitstaff clustered near the kitchen doors.
The senior waiters suddenly found the floor fascinating. Nobody moved.
"I’m not doing it," whispered Paul, a veteran waiter who usually fought for high rollers. "I served the Lupatti crew last year and messed up a wine order. I thought they were going to follow me home. I’m not going near the Don."
"Someone has to take the table." Richard’s voice cracked. His eyes moved wildly through the group. Then they landed on Tessa.
"No," she said immediately, reading his mind. "I take Gabriel’s section on Thursdays. Not this."
"Tessa, please." Richard nearly grabbed her arm. "You’re good with him. You don’t get rattled. Just pour the water, drop the menus, and let him order. The old man probably won’t even speak to you."
"Richard, I’m taking a double shift. I’m exhausted. Send one of the managers."
"If you do this, I’ll give you the weekend off. Paid."
Tessa froze. Two days of sleep. Two days without the aching in her joints. She looked toward the center booth. Gabriel was studying the menu with a weary expression. Salvatore was scowling at the table setting.
"Fine," Tessa muttered, grabbing a silver water pitcher. "But if I get shot, I’m suing the restaurant."
She did not wait for a response. She squared her shoulders, smoothed her apron, and walked into the lion’s den. As she approached, the sheer weight of the aura surrounding the two men hit her. It was not merely fear. It was the gravity of power. The rest of the restaurant faded into a blurred background.
Gabriel saw her coming. A flicker of something—surprise, perhaps relief—crossed his face before settling into polite indifference.
"Good evening," Tessa said evenly, completely devoid of the cheerful customer-service tone most waiters used. "Sparkling or still?"
"Sparkling for both," Gabriel answered quietly.
Tessa began pouring. As she filled Salvatore’s glass, the old man lifted the heavy leather-bound menu. He stared at it for several seconds. He was not wearing reading glasses, although he probably needed them. He squinted at the elegant cursive Italian descriptions of the dishes. Then he dropped the menu onto the table with a loud smack. Gabriel flinched slightly. Salvatore leaned back and crossed his hands over the head of his cane.
He looked at Gabriel, ignoring Tessa completely, and spoke. He did not speak Italian. He did not even speak modern Sicilian. He spoke the deep, guttural, jagged dialect of the Palermo slums.
"What the hell is this?" Salvatore rasped, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. "Mushroom foam. White truffle on a piece of bread. This isn’t cooking. It’s an insult. You bring me to a place like this, Gabriel? You make me eat this American garbage in disguise?"
Gabriel sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He answered in standard, polished Italian.
"Dad, it’s the best restaurant in the city. The chef has two stars. Just try the steak."
Salvatore scoffed, a wet, ugly sound. Then his pitch-black eyes shifted toward Tessa. He looked her up and down, taking in the plain uniform and tired face. He saw a peasant. A servant. And he decided to make her the target of his foul mood.
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"And you." He pointed a crooked finger at her. "Are you deaf as well as stupid? You stare like a dried codfish. Bring me something a man can eat. No foam. No weeds. Meat, garlic, oil. And if you don’t know how to cook it, tell me so I can burn this place down."
Gabriel went completely rigid. He opened his mouth to intervene, to apologize for his father and wave Tessa away. He knew the waitstaff did not speak a word of standard Italian, much less the archaic dialect his father weaponized to intimidate people.
