Chapter 3 - The Boss Takes the SeatThe rest of the dinner at Osteria del Carmine felt like an alternate reality for Hayley.
While Richard practically hyperventilated near the service pantry, clutching a bottle of antacids like a rosary, Hayley carried plates of herb-crusted lamb chops, roasted fingerling potatoes, and aged Barolo wine to table one.
She moved methodically, refusing to rush. Whenever her lower back twitched with a dull spasm, she simply paused, took a deep breath, and continued. What surprised her most wasn't the old Boston boss, who was surprisingly polite and asked about her due date, but Anthony Marletta himself.
The rumors painted him as a ruthless tyrant, a man who swallowed rivals whole and left no traces. Yet sitting at that table, he watched her with an intensity that had nothing to do with malice. Every time she approached, his sharp eyes tracked her movements, noting the way she subtly shifted her weight, the pale exhaustion beneath her eyes, and the quiet dignity with which she carried herself.
“Sit down for a minute, Hayley,” Anthony said abruptly as she cleared Lorenzo’s empty plate.
“Company policy says servers don't sit with guests, Mr. Marletta,” Hayley replied without looking up, stacking the plates neatly on her forearm.
“I own the company,” Anthony said flatly. “Pull up the empty chair.”
Lorenzo chuckled into his espresso. “Listen to the boss, young lady. My knees hurt just watching you haul that belly around.”
Hayley looked between the two powerful men. Her arches were burning like hot coals. “You won't dock my pay?”
“I’ll double your tip if you just sit your ass down for two minutes,” Anthony countered, his lips curling in an amused half-smile.
Hayley didn’t need to be told twice. She dropped onto the plush velvet chair recently vacated by Serafina. A long, shuddering groan of pure physical relief escaped her lips before she could stop it.
Anthony watched her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Rough night?”
“Every night is a rough night when you’re carrying a bowling ball under your ribs,” she muttered, rubbing the side of her stomach where a tiny heel was currently protruding. “He’s active tonight. I think the smell of the garlic woke him up.”
“A boy?” Anthony asked. His voice softened, shedding the razor-sharp edge it had carried earlier.
“Yeah. A boy.”
“Got a name?”
“Leo,” Hayley said softly. “After my grandfather. He was a carpenter. An honest man who worked until his hands bled. I figured the world could use another one of those.”
Anthony’s eyes lingered on her face. For a fleeting second, something vulnerable flickered behind his dark, guarded gaze. “Honest men have a hard time in this city, Miss Brooks.”
“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta try,” Hayley said, bracing her palms on the table to heave herself back to her feet. “And speaking of work, if I don't finish clearing table four, Richard is going to die of a coronary, and I don't want that on my conscience. Can I get you gentlemen dessert?”
“Tiramisu for the table,” Lorenzo declared. “And bring two spoons. One for me, and one for Leo.”
By the time the dinner ended and the Boston delegation was ushered into their armored sedans, the restaurant was nearly deserted. Hayley leaned against the service station, her apron covered in flour and breadcrumbs, wiping down menus with a damp cloth.
Anthony walked past the front vestibule, his coat draped over his arm. He paused near the station, digging into the breast pocket of his tailored jacket. He withdrew a thick, unsealed cream-colored envelope and placed it on the counter next to her rag.
Hayley looked at the envelope, then up at him. “What’s this?”
“Your tip,” Anthony said casually.
She peeled open the flap. Inside were crisp stacks of hundred-dollar bills. A quick glance told her there had to be at least ten thousand dollars in that envelope. Her breath hitched, caught in her throat.
“I can't take this,” she whispered, pushing it back across the stainless steel. “The dinner wasn't worth ten grand. And I don't take charity.”
“It’s not charity,” Anthony replied, stepping closer. The faint scent of sandalwood, fine tobacco, and crisp autumn night air surrounded him. “It’s hazard pay. For putting up with Serafina. And it’s an investment.”
“An investment in what?”
“In a kid named Leo,” Anthony said quietly, his voice dropping into a low, resonant register. “Buy the apartment with the elevator, Hayley. Buy the crib. Take care of yourself.”
Before she could form words to argue, he turned on his heel and walked out into the cold night. The glass doors shut behind him, leaving Hayley standing alone in the quiet restaurant, staring down at the thick envelope with tears stinging the backs of her eyes.
Outside, concealed in the darkened interior of a parked black sedan across the street, a pair of sharp, venomous eyes watched through tinted glass.
May you like
Serafina lowered her phone, having captured the exact moment Anthony leaned over the counter to hand the waitress the money. Her face was twisted into a grotesque mask of fury.
“You think you can humiliate me and get paid for it?” Serafina hissed into the dark interior of the car. She dialed a number on her burner phone, her knuckles turning bone white against the receiver. “Marco. It’s me. I need you to find out everything you can about a waitress named Hayley Brooks. Where she sleeps. Who she owes money to. And by tomorrow morning, I want her life dismantled.”
