Maria gasped. Her mouth fell open. “Gabby!”
“They’re mobsters, sis. What did you expect?” I brushed past her.
I hated to be so blunt. But who was I kidding? After tonight, the restaurant was open season. Wedding bells rang in the future, calling me to the altar. I wasn’t allowed to work another shift. No! I had to stand around, pretend to be bubbling with joy, all while knowing that my sisters got to work and earn money.
Not that Papa let them spend it.
He told them the same thing he’d told me. That he was opening savings accounts with his buddy. High yielding, their money would grow. When in reality, it was just another way for him to control us.
At least the girls got to spend a portion of their tips for fun. Mine were taken to keep me from falling into temptation.
Dio sacro, I loathed the Made Men hogging the tables near the back wall. At least they paid for their suppers. The don didn’t give them a reduced cost. Maria twirled her hair, leaning against the table, hip propped.
She’s going to get in trouble.
It wasn’t like I could tell her the truth. My hard-earned lesson was buried rather than passed down to my sisters. I blew out a breath, turned sharply, and hurried into the kitchen. If I was being honest, I wouldn’t have listened to a warning at her age either. Not that I was much older than she was. Still, life could age someone far beyond their years.
No, Maria would hear my story, think that I screwed up—which I had—and she was far too smart to let that happen. She wasn’t. If a disgusting sonofabitch set his sights on her, she wasn’t safe.
Saints-damned underworld and the scum it allowed to fester.
“Why the long face, Gabby Girl?” Sully boomed.
I schooled my face, flashing the cook a big, bright, fake smile. “I’m not sad.”
He slapped his fat, thick paw over his chest. “You wound me, cara mia!”
When the cook was in a good mood, he sang his words rather than spoke them. He could have given Dean Martin a run for his money back in the day. Instead, he worked seven days a week for the underworld kingpin who’d saved his life ages ago.
“Salvatore, you know I won’t forget to visit,” I teased.
He pointed a stumped finger at me—the tip lost in a pot of soup years ago. “Use my Christian name again, ragazza, and see if I don’t stew you.”
I fluttered my eyes as I passed him on the way to one of the computers. Alright, so I didn’t hate all the Made Men. Sully was one of the good ones. A rare breed. The point-of-sale screen showed the number from tonight. It was a solid evening. A suspicion that I couldn’t shake itched the back of my neck. That sixth sense was never wrong. I tapped into my sister’s portfolio. Looking at the tab for the back tables, my jaw worked back and forth.
Maria was comping drinks.
She just couldn’t wait until I was gone to start pulling that shit.
I drummed my finger against the edge of the screen. Part of me wanted to call it a day. I could leave early, and no one would say I didn’t earn it.
But I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
Printing a slip and logging out, I flashed the head cook a smile. “Wish me luck.”
“With what?” he snapped my way, mid rant at one of his underlings. His dark chocolate eyes blinked, and then he repeated a bit more kindly, “Cara mia? What is it?”
“I’m going to make a little girl cry.” I raised both brows, pulled my eyes wide, and shrugged.
He laughed.
He thought I was joking.
But I had one chance to do this, and I would sleep easier knowing I’d done everything I could. Going to the hostess stand where Maria loitered, whispering with Giana, another sister, who’d started working here as a hostess a month ago, I pulled up short.
“Here’s your tab, Maria.” The slip of paper dangled from my fingers.
She looked at it, looked back at me, and frowned in confusion. “I didn’t order anything.”
