“Alright,” she murmurs, her gaze flicking from the stroller’s tiny passengers to the two henchmen and HJ standing watch behind us. “That’s seven,” she corrects Clay, and my mouth drops open. The very air seems to still. “I just need a credit card on file.”
“You most definitely do not.”
The server blinks, astonished. I shift from foot to foot, heart racing.
“Oh—I’m sorry, sir,” she stammers, rifling through the pockets of her apron. “But the hotel policy is?—”
“No, no, it’s fine!” A man bursts from the kitchen doorway, his belly bouncing his apron with each hurried step. “Sorry,Mr Butcher,” he pants, cheeks flushed. “She’s new. She’s not from the District. She doesn’t know. Please let me show you to a table.”
The name ‘Butcher’ lands on the waitress like a bucket of ice-cold water. “I… please don’t fire me,” she whispers.
Clay’s blue gaze stays on her, unreadable but intense, then shifts to the man who rushed out in a flurry.
Nervous silence passes...
I hold my breath.
Finally, he places a firm hand on the small of my back and guides me into the bright, lively breakfast restaurant, and I exhale hard, hoping that’s the end of that conversation.
He wouldn’t fire her?
Not for that?
“I’m Marc, the restaurant manager. I didn’t expect you, Mr Butcher.” The chubby man scurries ahead, voice quivering as he leads us to a corner table at the back.
It’s friendly.
Boisterous.
I could imagine Bronson and Shoshanna coming here with their two boys. Around us, there are children colouring with crayons on butcher-paper runners. It’s welcoming, family-focused, warm and easy—that is until we pass the tables. The occupants’ conversations drop to a hush of secret gasps.
As we approach what I assume is our table, two henchmen take a stance on either side.
“She isn’t going to get fired, is she?” I ask softly as Marc attempts to pull my chair out, but HJ stops him.
Marc startles.
Clay presents my seat instead, and I sit.
HJ then sizes up the sturdy highchairs before lifting little Luca and Ash into their seats with care and knowledge. Once they’re fastened in with a toy each to bash against the table, heslides into place—a large step back and to the side of my chair, arms within reach of me.
“Please don’t fire her,” I say, swapping my most energetic baby, Luca’s, hard plastic giraffe toy for a fluffy koala that makes less noise.
Clay nods at Marc. “Don’t fire the girl.”
Marc ducks his chin reverently, murmuring, “Yes, Mr Butcher. Of course. I won’t.”
“Train her,” Clay adds, sharp.
Marc’s face turns red. “Certainly, Mr Butcher.”
Sir takes a seat opposite me and withdraws a folded note, passing it to the man between two fingertips. “For the young girl. I hold you responsible, not her. And tell her, it’s Mr Butcher, never Sir.”
Fingers trembling, Marc accepts it. “Of course, Mr Butcher. I will tell her.”
I let out an excited “Oooh,” watching the exchange, my eyes widening at the flash of green disappearing into Marc’s apron. "Was that a hundred? Did you just tip him, Sir?”
“Indeed.”
