Dark Queen

Great.

I go and place it on their table and begin clearing the plates. “Thank you so much for dining with us,” I beam.

One of the men slips a twenty into the pocket of my apron, his hand brushing over my lower stomach as he does.

Gritting my teeth, I clear the rest of their plates just as Milly makes her appearance. Narrowing her eyes at me, she follows me through to the back kitchen.

“Are you trying to steal my tips?” she asks, her lips twisted in a snarl.

“What?” I whirl around, astonished she has the balls to accuse me of that. I’ve been picking up her slack all night.

“I can clear my own tables, Vanessa,” she sneers, folding her arms and jutting out her curvy hip.

“It’s Alyssa, and the customers were leaving. You still hadn’t cleared their tables or even offered a dessert menu.”

“I was getting to it,” she growls before turning on her heel and storming toward the front of the house.

I follow, scooping the shitty twenty-dollar tip from my apron and scrunching it in my fist.

“Milly,” I call just as she steps through the door to the dining floor. I ping the crumpled note off her forehead. “Your tip.”

Her screech is over the top and loud—too freaking loud.

Shit.

“Alyssa, in my office,” Hannah warns from behind me, startling me. I hadn’t heard her office door open.

If I get fired over this, Milly will be getting more than a piece of paper thrown in her damn face on my departure.

Closing the door, I cringe, scratching at a non-existent itch on my arm. “Sorry about that—”

“I need you to stay late,” she cuts me off with a shake of her head and crinkle of her nose, looking down at her phone in her hand.

Okay. Not what I was expecting. “I have a curfew,” I remind her.

“I’m not asking.” She looks up at me over her glasses. I hadn’t noticed she wore them for reading before now.

“Can I ask what it is you want me to do?”

“Mr. Leto is coming in to eat.”

Thud.

“Why can’t he eat during normal hours?” I find the words slipping from my lips before realizing I said them.

A live hum pulses within me at the thought of getting to see him. He hasn’t been in all week, and now I’ll see him in a real setting—not a fleeting moment in a hallway.

“He owns the place. He can do what he likes.” She sounds worn out.

“Everything okay with you?” I ask, moving closer. Taking off her glasses, she rubs the bridge of her nose before sighing and slipping her glasses back into place.

“I’m fine. Send Milly in for me please.” I take that as my cue to leave.

“You good?” Simon asks when I get out front.

“Yeah. I might have to sleep in your car if I don’t make curfew, though.” I cringe.

He chuckles, popping the lid from a bottle of Coke and offering it to me. “Sugar!”

I shake my head no, my mom’s sour screech churning my stomach. I guess her poison is still inside me.

“Millyyy,” I drag her name out, smiling sweetly, “you’re wanted in Hannah’s office.”

Her face pales, and a sick satisfaction fills my chest, enjoying her fear.

After all the customers leave for the evening, Hannah places a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle Old Reserve bourbon on a tray with two glasses. “Leave the bottle—don’t pour for him,” she states, then excuses herself.

Fifteen minutes later, the front doors open, and in walks the man himself.

Luca.

His tie hangs loose around his neck, no suit jacket just a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, showcasing his strong forearms.

Two men in black suits flank him, each taking a stance at either side of the doors. They look around, surveying the place.

He doesn’t acknowledge anyone as he makes his way to a table on the higher level reserved for VIP guests.

His strides are powerful. He walks with purpose, charging the atmosphere around him. It’s breathtaking to see someone command their space and the people around them without even speaking.

Not a minute later, Marcello joins him, dressed down in fitted jeans and a sweater with a shirt beneath it. Tension hardens his features. His jaw is stiff. His furrowed brow makes my stomach tense.

I fidget nervously, feeling dishevelled and worn out. Loose strands fall from my ponytail. I pull my hairband, attempting to neaten it, and the elastic snaps in my fingers, my curtain of hair falling free down my back.

Shit.

Hannah is strict with how we present ourselves—and loose hair isn’t tolerated.

Simon clears his throat, gaining my attention. He jerks his chin to the tray. My pulse skyrockets as I take it and walk across the empty floor.

It’s so quiet in here, my footfalls echo through the space. With every step closer, my heart races faster, booming in my ears.

They’re in a heated conversation and don’t stop even as I approach the table.