“You’re kidding. She asked me five minutes ago.”
“You might want to start wearing a watch. We’re not on princess time, Melanie. This is real time. People don’t care if you’re busy—they want their shit now.”
Her words hit like slaps. I glare, but stay quiet. Not now. Not her. Not again. The next time she pulls this, I’m not holding back.
Back in the kitchen, Nick hands me a bowl of mashed potatoes.
“Who orders mashed potatoes at an Italian restaurant?” I mutter.
“Not everyone likes pasta or risotto. So we offer it,” he says, already annoyed.
“Then they should go to a steakhouse.” I drop off the potatoes, take the new table’s order, and head back.
“Is it okay if I take a break?” I ask.
“What? No. You can’t take a break because you’re tired or your feet hurt. It’s been two hours.”
Two hours that feel like five.
“I just need some fresh air.”
He steps closer. “You can go smell the steam off the boiling water. Now get your ass out there.”
“This is bullshit.”
“Niccolo.” Bianca. Her voice slices through the air. I turn to see her standing there, calm but firm.
“Smettila di essere così duro. Posso coprirla e portare il cibo.”Stop being so harsh. I’ll cover for her.
“Mamma, no, lavori già abbastanza qui. Può assorbirlo eaffrontarlo. Può prendersi una pausa dopo la fretta.”Mom, no. You work hard enough. She can suck it up and deal. She can take a break after the rush.
As they argue, I slip away.
I head for the restroom, legs shaky. I haven’t eaten. My stomach is a hollow pit. One granola bar. That’s all I had. Maybe I can sneak some bread. I need a second. A sip of water. Just something. I push through the double doors. Alexa glares at me from the bar. I pretend I don’t see her. My legs feel heavy. My arms float. I can’t feel my fingers—one more step. You’re almost there. Just sit down. The hallway warps around me. I reach for the restroom door. My hand touches the handle, then the floor rushes up.
And everything goes black.
My eyelids flutter open,slow and reluctant, like my body’s trying to shield me from whatever comes next. The light is blinding, sterile, and unforgiving. Shapes move in my periphery. My heart starts pounding.
Someone is pacing.
I squint, vision swimming, and for a moment, I can only see a silhouette—tall, rigid, restless. Something deep inside me stirs, not fear, but something close. I blink hard, once, twice, and then I see him—his back broad and tense, that skull tattoo crawling up his arm like a warning sign. My stomach flips, and something bitter and warm twists in my gut.
Nick.
The knot in my chest tightens. I keep blinking, and the rest of him comes into painful clarity. Black pants. Black shirt. All that ink, coiled and sprawled across his arms like a second skin. He’s on the phone, his voice low and tight, and he speaks in rapid Italian. It sounds like gravel wrapped in silk.
“No, sta ancora dormendo. Le hanno fatto degli esami ma i risultati non sono ancora arrivati.”No, she’s still asleep. They ran tests on her, but the results haven’t come back yet.
His voice has an edge to it—protective, maybe even anxious. My breath catches.
“Ho detto ad Abigail che avevo gestito la cosa.”I told Abigail I had it handled.
A beat of silence. My pulse thumps in my ears.
“Non lo so, non l’ha detto. Tutto quello che so è che i suoi genitori vivono in California.”I don’t know, she didn’t say. All I know is her parents live in California.
His jaw tightens with each word, his shoulders rigid. He’s holding something in.
