“Don’t I know it,” she says, smirking slightly.
Amber has been working here almost as long as I have. She’s the youngest of us, but she handles the bar like she was born behind it. Fast hands, sharp memory, and a sense for what people want before they even ask for it.
I hand off the drink to the right table and come back toward the bar just as Rose is finishing adjusting the flower arrangement near the counter.
She looks up when she sees me. “Rough night?”
“The usual,” I say.
Which is true. Busy nights are normal here. Notte Bianca built its reputation on being one of the few Italian restaurants in the city that manages to feel both elegant and relaxed at the same time. People come here because the food is good, the wine list is better, and the atmosphere makes them feel like they’re somewhere important. They don’t see the chaos that happens behind the scenes to keep that illusion alive.
Rose returns to her flowers, humming quietly to herself. Amber shakes a cocktail shaker with practiced precision. Somewhere behind me, a burst of laughter rises from one of the tables.
For a moment, everything feels balanced.
It rarely lasts.
I circle the dining room again, checking on the other servers. Erin has recovered from the wine emergency. Savannah disappears back into the kitchen, already shouting something about gnocchi to the chef. Amber has three new drink orders lined up.
Donald is still nowhere to be seen.
Which doesn’t surprise me.
On paper, Donald manages the restaurant. In reality, he mostly manages to avoid doing any actual work. When things get busy, he vanishes into the office, leaving the rest of us to handle the floor ourselves.
It used to bother me more when I first started working here. These days, I’ve accepted it the way you accept bad weather. Complaining about it won’t change anything, and at the end of the night the restaurant still needs to run.
I reach the welcome desk again and finally allow myself a small breath.
Then a voice behind me says quietly,
“Excuse me.”
The sound hits me hard, forcing my brain to stop working for a second. I know that voice. It is deep and calm and unmistakable. The kind of voice that makes people turn their heads in a crowded room. I have even heard it in my dreams for seven years.
Slowly, I turn around.
Niccolò Neri stands in front of the host stand.
Even after a year of seeing him regularly, the sight of him still has the same strange effect on me. He is tall without trying to look imposing, dressed in one of those perfectly tailored suits that make you immediately aware you are standing in the presence of someone who belongs to a very different world than yours.
Niccolò Neri.
The Don of the Bronx.
Yes, I know about that part.
When the Five Families of New York started using Notte Bianca as their regular dinner spot last year, the entire staff noticed, even though their real identities are a whispered secret few are privy to. You don’t have to be deeply involved in organized crime to recognize some of the most powerful men in the city when they walk into your restaurant together.
But none of that is why his voice has been stuck in my head for seven years.
“Good evening,” I say, keeping my tone perfectly professional. My heart is beating so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it. “Your party is already here.”
His gaze rests on me for a brief moment, and then nods. “Thank you.”
God.That voice.
My mind betrays me instantly, replaying the words I remember from seven years ago as clearly as if they were spoken yesterday.
