I’ve seen him before. Quiet, controlled, sharper than anyone else who sits in this restaurant. A Don, rumor has it—one of the five leaders of New York City’s criminal underworld. Thirty-one, young for his title, which makes him even scarier. He’s at the table with his “colleagues” now, but his gaze is fixed on me. He never smiles, never calls me over to complain about a dish or ask for a re-do, like most customers. He just watches.
And tonight, he’s watching again.
His eyes follow me all the way back to the kitchen. I don’t know what that means. I shouldn’t delude myself that it’s anything more than curiosity. Rich people have that in spades, especially when it comes to us puny mortals. Sometimes, theyjust like to marvel at us like zoo animals. See how the other 99% lives.
Who am I kidding?Riccardo’s gaze feels different. It always has. It’s the kind of gaze that makes me feel like he’s seeing past my stained uniform and into places I’ve never let anybody else see.
Snap out of it.I shake myself and push into the kitchen, then drop the plate on the counter.
“Well?” Gerard demands.
“She wants it softer.”
“Then overcook it. The customer is always right.”
In matters of taste,I add mentally.Not in matters of international cuisine. If she likes soft foods, she can order a vellutata next time. Read the menu for a change.
My mental rant makes me lose focus. Which is a mistake, because Gerard is closer now.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he breathes, the whiff of alcohol strong on his breath. Stronger, somehow, than when I left this kitchen two minutes ago. “Do your job, or I’ll spank you until you learn your place.”
He ends that with a hard slap on my ass.
I freeze. The rest of the kitchen staff is throwing concerned looks my way, but no one steps in. They’re too scared to. A place in Gerard’s kitchen is worth its weight in gold, and they’d never jeopardize that.
My friends out there—Erin, Rose, Amber, Izzy—they would have raised hell if they’d seen it, but they aren’there.And I’ll be damned if I go crying to them. They need their jobs just as bad as I need mine.
The urge to throw something is strong, but I force myself to breathe. Blink back tears of humiliation before they can roll down my cheeks and silently turn back to the stove.
Then my phone buzzes in my pocket.
The insurance company’s reply.
Hope blooms in my chest. Small, fragile hope.
If this goes right, I can finally start living again. Stop spending my whole paycheck on heart medication, stop waking up in the dead of night to check if Mom’s still breathing. I can start looking for a better job. I can slap Gerard’s smug face as hard as I want next time he tries to touch me.
If this goes?—
I wipe my hands, check the email, and instantly feel the blood drain from my face.
Subject: Coverage Denial—Immediate Attention Required
My heart sinks.
Dear Ms. Cross,
This message concerns the preauthorization request submitted for Mary Cross regarding the recommended mitral valve repair and associated inpatient care scheduled for next month.
After review, we regret to inform you that the procedure has been denied for coverage under your current insurance plan.
The rest of the email is a blur. The reasons for coverage denial, the niceties at the end—it all melts together before my eyes.
Except for the costs.
Seventy-thousand dollars.
I stare at the number like doing that could change it, but it doesn’t. The zeroes stay the same.
