Chapter 8 - Shifting Power Dynamics Behind the Line
By the time I pushed through the swinging doors into the hot, chaotic kitchen, my cheeks were burning. The ticket rail was overflowing with white slips of paper, and the line cooks were shouting back and forth over the roar of the ventilation hoods. I handed Salvatore's wine order to the bartender, leaning against the stainless-steel counter to catch my breath.
Marcus appeared beside me, wiping his hands on a damp kitchen towel. His expression was tight, his jaw clenched. "What's going on with table four?" he asked, keeping his voice low enough to be lost in the kitchen noise. "Marquetti waved me off. He specifically asked for you again. Do you know who that guy is?"
"He's a customer, Marcus," I said, turning to face him. "He wants a glass of wine and a steak. I'm his server."
"He's not just a customer," Marcus muttered, casting a wary glance toward the dining room doors. "That's Salvatore Marquetti. People in this city don't just chat with him unless they're doing business or looking for trouble. If he's making a habit of sitting in your section, management's going to start asking questions. They don't like our staff getting too familiar with high-net-worth regulars."
"I'm doing my job," I said, my voice dropping into a register that made Marcus step back half an inch. "If management has a problem with me taking a table, they can come out and tell me themselves."
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Marcus shook his head, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Just watch yourself, Tessa. Guys like that leave a wake. I'd hate to see you get caught in it."
He walked away, but his words hung in the humid air between the fryers and the prep stations. I picked up the glass of red wine from the bar, the condensation cool against my fingers. When I stepped back out onto the floor, the warm chandelier light felt heavier, illuminating the invisible lines drawn between the people who owned the city and the people who served them. Salvatore was waiting at his table, watching me approach with an expression that suggested he had heard every word of the unspoken tension rippling through the room.
