Chapter 56

Andre barks my name, breaking me from my thoughts, and I have to skitter across the bar to help him dismantle a couple of booths and set up a table for sixteen.

“God,” I murmur, carrying one end of a heavy bistro table back into the service room, “I thought I was like…ornamental.”

“We’re all ornamental,” Andre mutters, carrying the other end, more frantic than I’ve seen him before, “until the boss comes. And then we’re all expendable.” We put the table down and I huff for breath as Andre reaches for me, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Do I need to explain to you, Bambi, how big of a deal tonight is?”

“No,” I say, raising my eyebrows at him and reaching back to lift my hair off my sweaty neck. “No, I’ve had…run-ins with Romano before. I get the severity of the situation.”

“Good,” he says, nodding. “Everyone on point tonight. I’m counting on you.”

And I smile at him, pleased to be needed, and he smiles back. “Damn it I hope you make it here, Bambs,” he murmurs as we head back into the bar. “I like a girl who knows how to work.”

Work we do, for about the next hour, getting everything all set up. At the end of it Andre sends me away, telling me to go to the staff bathroom in the back and fix myself up a little. When I get there, I see that my hair is indeed a mess of fly aways and that my makeup needs a little touchup, but overall I’m not as much of a disaster as I could be.

By the time I leave, I feel as calm, cool, and collected as I can be, ready to take on whatever the evening throws my way.

That is, until I step out from the service area and see Christian walking through the front door, Violetta at his side. My mouth instantly goes dry and my steps stutter.

My eyes instantly move to Frankie, who is sitting up straight at the corner of the bar, his eyes already on me, wide and worried. He raises his eyebrows and turns his head, just slightly, silently asking me if I can handle this.

I take a deep breath and then nod to him, letting him know that I can.

And then I get to work, as I always do, heading behind the bar and doing whatever Andre tells me to, not even looking over at the table where stupid Christian is sitting with his stupid, perfectly nice girlfriend.

My anonymity ends, however, when Andre hands me a very pretty little tray of limoncello shots, telling me to go and offer them to anyone at the table who has any interest.

I take a deep breath as I walk over and head to Christian and Violetta first, wanting to get this over with. Then, I put on my best Bambi persona and allow my eyes to fall halfway shut, my voice to drop about half an octave and become a little bit more smooth, a little bit more sultry. “Can I offer you?” I murmur, bending down like I’m telling them a secret, offering the drinks.

“Oh, I love Limoncello!” Violetta says, happy and perky, reaching for one as she turns to thank me for it. But she gasps, her face bursting into a delighted grin when she realizes that she knows me. “Oh hey!” she says, laughing. “I wondered if I’d see you tonight!”

Christian stills and then looks up at me. Apparently, he hadn’t bothered to look at the waitress or the tray of tiny drinks. He takes the news in stride. “You remember Bambi, don’t you, Violetta?” he murmurs, smiling at her and then at me.

“Yes,” Violetta says, grinning as she looks at her boyfriend and then back up at me, figuring out the game of my fake name. “Great to see you, Bambi.” She laughs her tinkly laugh again, and I can’t help but smile as I straighten up and move on to the next set of guests. Violetta – she really is sweet, isn’t she?

I continue doing my job, but as I get halfway around the table I can’t help but glance back at Christian. As I kind of expected – and hoped, if I’m being honest – his eyes are on me, a frown on his lips. I work really, really hard to keep the smile from my mouth, instead reminding myself that it’s my job to be aloof and alluring.

But god, it’s good to know that he’s still pissed off that I work here.

It’s good to know that he cares.

I finish delivering the limoncello and slowly make my way back to the bar, sliding the nearly empty tray onto the wood next to Andre. “What’s next?” I ask, ready for it, glancing back at the table filled with powerful people.

“What’s next is that we drink these,” Andre murmurs, taking two of the leftover limoncello shots and handing one to me before clinking his tiny cup against mine. “We need to be fortified.”

“Wait, seriously?” I say, laughing a little. Andre – I have never seen him drink on the job. And I mean, it’s just limoncello – it’s not like he’s sitting back here chugging vodka – but this is…this is different.

“Bottoms up, Bambi,” he murmurs, smirking at me. I smirk back and do as he does, lifting the drink to my lips and tossing it back. “You have no idea what you’re in for.”

Andre was not kidding. Hours pass, all of it hard work. And I mean hours.

The other patrons leave long, long before Romano and his party even give any indication that they’re flagging. An amazing array of food shows up too, though I don’t know from where. Usually our tiny kitchen only serves tiny plates, but in addition to those come dish after dish of Italian favorites.

And how much they drink – god, I’vd never seen so many top-shelf bottles emptied like that. If I have to shake another damn espresso martini I think my damn wrist will snap.

Still, there’s more.

“Port,” Andre says, placing a very small, very old bottle onto a gold tray with four delicate glasses. “They won’t all want it, but they’ll want it offered. If they say yes, you lower the tray, and they’ll take a glass and pour what they wish. If you run out of glasses, come back here and I’ll give you more.”

I nod, understanding, and move over to the table. I serve largely as I did the limoncello, bending over slightly between patrons, whispering the offer of desert wine. Most of the people wave me away, two taking me up on a glass, and as I move around I notice more than Christian’s eyes on me now – many of the men, especially the older ones, watch me as I move.

I hold their eye contact, as Andre instructed me to do, for just a little too long before breaking it. Let them think that I’m looking back at them as well. That I’m just as interested, distracted, even, by my interest in them though I’m trying to do my job.

When I get to Romano, I see the smirk on his face. I realize that he’s been watching me, and that he…well, that he quite likes my performance, doesn’t he?

“None of that for me,” he murmurs. “Though if you would bring me another glass of whiskey,” he murmurs, lifting his half-empty glass and swirling around the contents, “I’d appreciate the help.”

“Another, sweetheart?” Bianca sighs, shaking her head.

“Get her a White Russian,” Romano murmurs, smirking at me before turning to his wife. “You need to loosen up.”

Bianca just sighs again, sharper this time, as I move to Christian and Violetta, who both wave me away. I head back to the bar, walking slowly, and as I do part of the conversation catches my ears.

“You can’t just hold onto all the financial information yourself, Romano,” an older man says – not much older than Romano, though his sagging skin and the dark circles under his eyes suggest hard living. “All that info you got from that computer wiz you stole from Bonetti - you should share the wealth.”

“I’m still assessing,” Romano murmurs, and my skin chills because I’m pretty damn sure they’re talking about Steven, aren’t they? And about the information on mafia finances he pulled from the dark web when we lived together in my apartment. “I’ll decide later what it is that I want to share. And what I’ll be keeping to myself.”

“You okay?” Andre asks me when I come back, correctly perceiving my distant expression, my worry.

“Just tired,” I reply, glancing at the clock and sighing when I see that it’s nearly two-thirty in the morning. “Whiskey on ice and a White Russian.”

Andre laughs, shaking his head. He leans closer to me. “He only orders those when he’s pissed at her,” he murmurs. “Because she got drunk on White Russians once in Vegas, and he’s trying to embarrass her. Watch, she won’t drink a drop.”

But, even if it will go to waste, Andre makes the drinks anyway. And I carry them over to the table on a little silver tray.

“And what about the other one?” another man asks – also old. I study him, wondering who these men are, because they don’t look anything like anyone in the Romano family. I make a mental note to ask Frankie for clarity, though I’m sure he’ll tell me to keep my nose out of it.

“What other one?” Romano asks, sitting back in his chair as he accepts the whiskey from me.

“The girl,” the man says, looking at him evenly. “The computer wiz’s computer wiz girlfriend – who knows all about it.”

I do my absolute very, very best to do everything normally, to keep my hands from shaking.

“Oh, her?” Romano says, a clever smile playing on his lips as I place the White Russian next to his wife’s plate. “Well,” he says with a sigh. “You’ll have to ask my son about her.”

All eyes at the table move directly to Christian.

And mine do as well.