I pour into the glass with no ice.
“Don’t overdo it. That right there is nearly two grand a bottle.”
My eyes widen, and I’m careful not to spill a drop, concerned he might dock me for it. Hell, am I even getting paid for this gig, or am I free labor because he owns me and could force my hand at whatever he chooses?
I slide the glass to him and recap the bottle, placing it back on the shelf. He swirls the liquor around in his glass, staring at it.
“We never discussed pay.” I’m making a bold choice, bringing up the subject, but if I’m expected to work for Dante, shouldn’t I receive some type of compensation?
His eyes narrow and he lifts the glass to his lips, taking a small sip. “I suppose we haven’t.”
“I think it’s only fair that I keep my tips,” I say, hoping at minimum, I can bring in a few dollars a week.
He nods and sips his drink. “I can accept that.”
Maybe I should have asked for more, an hourly rate as well.
Dante grabs his drink and takes it, walking off.
“Hey! You forgot to tip your bartender.”
He glances at me over his shoulder. “No, I didn’t, Harper. I own the bar, just like I own you.”
I bite down on my tongue; rage burns inside of me and I’m grateful he’s walking away so I don’t say something regrettable to the mafia boss.
Friday night, I’m home late, working the bar until close. When I get back to the Riccis’, Zeke is already asleep in his own bed. I’m unsure how Nikki or Paige managed to do that, but I’m grateful.
Saturday morning, I have off, which gives me time to have breakfast and share a few cuddles with my son. It’s the first time he’s slept through the night since the shooting.
“Good morning,” Dante says, glancing up at me from his newspaper. He’s seated at the dining room table, a cup of coffee in front of him.
I sit Zeke down at the table, bringing him a plate of pancakes for breakfast.
“Morning,” I say, forcing a smile at Dante.
“Nikki will keep an eye on Zeke this afternoon. I have you covering the shift starting at two.”
“Until what time?” I ask, hoping I’ll be home earlier this evening.
“Close.” Dante doesn’t so much as look at me as he reads the paper.
“You’re having me work a twelve-hour shift, unpaid.” The disdain is evident in my tone.
Nikki’s soft voice startles me from behind. “Are you really expecting our daughter to work without pay, Dante?”
Dante closes his newspaper, glowering at me. “I’ve agreed to let her keep the tips.”
Nikki steals the seat next to Zeke, her attention stolen momentarily on my son before glaring at her husband. “You’re going to pay her a salary for working at your bar or?—”
“Or what?” He raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate her threat.
The smirk adorns Nikki’s face. “Or you’ll start babysitting duty with little Zeke. I’m sure he’d love for you to spend more time with him.”
Dante grumbles under his breath and meets my stare, his expression cold as ice. “I will start paying you weekly for your work with me. How does five hundred per week sound?”
Nikki clears her throat, giving Dante a look.
“Fine. What about eight hundred per week? You will be expected to work no more than thirty hours while you’re in school, with a ten, twelve, and then six-hour shift on Sundays.”
