Chapter 2

Vivian's POV

"Your linen guy texts at midnight?" I'd asked, half asleep.

"They're out of Jersey," Adrian said. "Weird hours." He kissed my forehead and turned the phone face down on the nightstand.

It had all been right there.

"Watch your mouth," I told her. "When your husband gets here, I want to see exactly how he handles me."

Her eyes went wide. Her voice climbed half an octave.

"Watch my mouth? You're the one who needs manners, lady. And now you're waiting for my husband?" She started circling me, heels clicking on the tile. "Oh, I get it. You order one basket, you figure the owner's a man, you figure you'll pay some other way. Look at you. You've been passed around half of Manhattan. My husband's loyal. He doesn't touch trash like you."

Loyal. I'd heard funnier jokes. Not many.

My father was one tap away. I kept the phone in my hand and didn't touch it. I wanted to see my husband's face when he walked through that door.

She spun toward the dining room.

"Everybody! This woman walked in with four kids, ordered one basket of garlic knots, and she's been refilling it all night!"

Her phone came up, a red LIVE badge glowing in the corner, the lens a foot from my face.

"Restaurant owners, save this face. This is who's putting small businesses under."

The room turned on me fast.

"Lady, it's a business, not a charity."

"At least order something. Come on."

"This is why a sandwich costs twenty bucks now."

The kids shrank against my legs. I pointed at table nine—the scraped plates, the ziti pan, the kids' bowls with butter still pooled at the bottom.

"We ordered dinner. Ziti, chicken parm, meatballs, two kids' pastas. Two hundred and twelve dollars, and it's sitting in your system right now. The menu says refills are free."

She didn't even look.

"She's still lying! Look at her, she won't quit!" She swung back to the room. "Everybody, film this. Post it. Let the whole city see."

Phones went up. One, then six, then everyone. A guy at the bar. Two NYU girls in the corner booth. An entire birthday table, party hats and all.

Every lens in the room was pointed at four children.

After the funeral, Leo stopped talking for six months. His therapist called it selective mutism. I called it watching a light go out. Tonight was the first time he'd walked up to a stranger on his own. And now his face was going out to God knew how many people with the word mooch stamped across it.

I pulled the twins behind me and spread my arms.

"You're broadcasting four kids and calling them thieves," I said, loud and level. "That's defamation, and everyone filming is helping her do it. Pull up the check for table nine. It takes ten seconds."

Then I leaned in, low, so only she could hear.

"You won't last another night in this building."

She slapped me.

The crack echoed through the room. My head snapped sideways, and my cheek went hot.

"You're threatening me?" she hissed. "This place is a fifty-year landmark, sweetheart. Who the hell do you think you are?"

Nobody had laid a hand on me since I was twelve. That was the year a man tried to pull me into a van outside school, and my father signed me up for Krav Maga three nights a week until I left for college. Everyone who knew me knew better.

I hit her back. Once. Open hand, full weight. She stumbled into the host stand.

"You want a show?" I said. "Keep filming. Let's see whose name is mud by the end of the night."

For one second she just stood there, a red handprint blooming on her cheek.

Then she screamed.

"Don't just stand there! Are you blind? She's attacking me!"

Three servers came at me at once. The first grabbed my arm; I twisted her wrist and walked her face-first into a booth. The second swung wild; I stepped inside it and shoved her into the third. They went down in a pile of black aprons.

They got up slowly. None of them came back.

Chelsea was breathing hard.

"Oh, so that's how you get away with it. You've got moves." She snapped her fingers at one of the cousins. "Kayla. Call 911. Tell them a customer won't pay and she's assaulting my staff."

"Good," I said. "Call them."

I meant it. My card had cleared. The receipt was in my purse, right next to the sonogram. Let them come.

"And Brianna—get the guys," Chelsea told the girl with the lashes. "Both Mikes. Now."

A woman at a two-top leaned toward me. "Honey, think of your kids. Just pay her for another basket and go."

"Too late for that," Chelsea said. "You eat and run, you put hands on my people—house policy is damages. The food. My staff's medical bills. My whole night of business." She smiled. "Fifty grand. Or the cops take you, and those brats go to CPS."

Fifty thousand dollars. For bread.

The kitchen doors banged open.

Three men came out wiping their hands on their aprons. A skinny dishwasher, and two big guys I'd heard Adrian mention: the new line cooks. Big Mike, who had to go three-thirty, easy. And Little Mike, who was only two-twenty, and therefore, apparently, little.

Chelsea pointed at me with one acrylic nail.

"Take out the trash."