Then Savannah disappeared.
At first, I thought she had gone to the kitchen to deal with another complaint. But ten minutes passed. Then twenty. And she still didn’t come back out.
What did come back inside, however, was Gerard, our head chef. With a broken nose.
There was dried blood on the front of his jacket, and he kept pressing a handkerchief to his face while muttering under his breath about “that bitch Savannah” and how she had no idea who she was messing with.
I didn’t ask questions, because there was no reason to.
I’ve been working here long enough to notice patterns.
And I notice things people don’t realize I notice.
Like which Don looks at which woman when they think no one is paying attention.
Riccardo Romano has been watching Savannah for months. Quietly. Patiently. The way a predator watches prey, except there is something strangely protective in the way he does it. I have seen it enough times now that I am confident about the interpretation.
Which means when Savannah disappears and Gerard walks back in with his nose broken and his pride bleeding all over the floor, Riccardo Romano has happened.
It doesn’t take a genius to guess that. I’m not naïve. Gerard is a handsy piece of shit on a good day. I can imagine what he must have done to earn that broken nose. Would have given it to him myself, probably, had I been there.
This restaurant exists on the edge of two worlds. One of them serves pasta and expensive wine to Manhattan’s elite. The other runs quietly beneath the surface of the city, deciding who gets to live comfortably and who disappears without explanation.
The Dons sit at the intersection of those worlds.
I do my job by pretending not to see the second world. But that doesn’t mean I’m blind.
“Earth to Izzy.”
Amber’s voice pulls me back into the present. I realize I’ve been staring at the same empty tray for several seconds.
“What?” I say.
Amber wipes her hands on a towel and leans across the bar.
“You’re doing the thinking face again.”
“I do not have a thinking face.”
“You absolutely do,” Rose says from her stool nearby.
Rose has stayed later than usual tonight, helping Amber with small things around the bar while we serve the last stragglers. Normally she would have left hours ago, but she’s been unusually quiet this evening. I’ve caught her glancing toward the door more than once.
Everyone seems a little on edge tonight.
“What time is it?” Amber asks.
I glance at the clock.
Eleven forty-seven. My stomach drops.
“Shit.”
Amber follows my gaze to the clock and immediately understands.
“Go,” she says.
“I still have two tables finishing dessert.”
