Chapter 2 - Whispers Behind The Kitchen Pass
The heavy swinging door of the kitchen hit my lower back with a dull thud as I backed through it, clutching the empty silver tray to my chest like a shield. The heat inside hit me instantly, smelling of toasted garlic, roasting marrow, and the sharp, acidic tang of spilled white wine. On the other side of the stainless-steel pass, Marcus, one of the line cooks, was slamming sauté pans onto the burner with unnecessary force.
"You spent five minutes at table four," Marcus muttered, not looking up as he flipped a medallion of beef with a metal spatula. "Marquetti doesn't like chatty servers. Or maybe you think because he wears custom wool he's handing out tips like a movie star."
"I took his drink order, Marcus. Nothing more," I said, setting the tray down on the drying rack with a sharp clatter.
"Everyone in the front knows who he is, Tessa. Except apparently you," Sarah whispered, stepping up beside me with a rack of dirty glassware. Her red hair was pinned up looser than mine, stray strands sticking to her damp forehead. "The manager keeps checking on that section every two minutes because nobody wants to drop a fork near him. What were you even doing with your hands over there? Looked like you were casting spells."
I didn't answer right away. I grabbed a clean linen cloth and wiped down the prep counter, watching the gray smear of water evaporate under the harsh fluorescent lights. Back out on the floor, the world was polite, orderly, and entirely predictable. You bring the bread, you pour the water, you recite the specials, and you collect the percentage. But table four hadn't felt predictable. It had felt like stepping onto a frozen lake and waiting to see if the ice would hold.
"He asked a question, I answered it," I said finally, keeping my voice neutral.
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"Just keep your head down," Sarah warned, tossing her towel into the hamper. "Guys like that don't come in here for the rack of lamb. They come because nobody asks questions."
Through the small round window in the kitchen door, I could see the dim amber glow of the dining room. Salvatore was still sitting there in the corner, a dark silhouette against the dark windowpane, the white tablecloth creating a sharp square of light around him. He hadn't touched his water yet. He was simply watching the room with that same unblinking stillness, his fingers resting flat against the edge of the table. The warning in Sarah's voice buzzed in the back of my mind, but underneath it was an irritating pull of curiosity that I couldn't quite wipe away with a clean towel.
