Chapter 3 - The Offer You Can't Refuse
The restaurant was paralyzed. Every patron pretended to stare deeply into their wine glasses, while secretly straining their ears to catch every word spoken at the king’s table.
Rico remained kneeling on the marble floor next to Clara and Leo. The contrast between them was striking: Rico, the epitome of ruthless underworld power wrapped in Italian luxury, and Clara, exhausted, wearing a faded black uniform, holding a glass of warm milk. Yet, right now, Clara was the one in absolute control of the situation.
Leo had quieted completely, sipping the warm milk through a straw Clara had produced from her apron pocket, his small hand still firmly gripping Clara’s thumb.
"You're not a regular waitress," Rico stated, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the faint, defensive posture of her shoulders. "You didn't flinch when I slammed my hand on the table. You didn't run when Dante reached for his gun. Most people piss themselves when I look at them."
"Maybe most people have something to lose," Clara replied quietly, gently stroking the back of Leo's soft, dark curls with her free hand. "Or maybe I've seen worse things than a grumpy man in a fancy suit."
Rico’s jaw tightened. A flicker of intrigue—sharp and dangerous—crossed his pale eyes. "Is that so? And what could a girl working shifts at a mid-tier Italian joint possibly know about worse things?"
"That’s none of your business, Mr. Moretti," Clara said flatly, pulling her hand gently away from Leo’s grip now that the boy was calm. She stood up, brushing down her apron. "The little boss is settled. If you need anything else, ask Marco. I have tables to clear."
She turned on her heel, her cheap rubber shoes squeaking as she walked away toward the kitchen doors.
"Hey," Rico called out, his voice sharp enough to stop her in her tracks.
Clara paused, looking back over her shoulder. "Yes?"
"You didn't drop the bill," Rico said smoothly, a faint, sardonic smirk touching the corner of his lips. "And you didn't take your tip."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick, black leather money clip. Without looking, he peeled off five crisp hundred-dollar bills and tossed them onto the table, where they landed beside the shattered risotto plate.
"Keep the change," Rico said.
Clara looked at the money, then back at Rico. She didn't rush over to grab it. She didn't gasp. She simply shook her head. "I don't take hush money, Mr. Moretti. And I certainly don't take charity."
She pushed open the swinging kitchen doors and disappeared inside, leaving the most feared man in Brooklyn standing in the middle of a silent dining room, staring at the empty space where she had just been standing.
Marco the manager scurried over, wiping his forehead yet again. "M-Mr. Moretti… I am so sorry about her. She’s new, she doesn't know protocol, she—"
"Fire her," Dante suggested darkly from behind Rico, his hand still massaging his bitten knuckles. "She's disrespectful. Could be a plant from the Lucchese family. We don't know who she is."
Rico raised a single hand, silencing both men. He looked down at Leo, who had finished his milk and was now resting his head against the banquette, his eyelids fluttering shut as exhaustion finally overtook him.
"Find out everything about her," Rico ordered softly, his eyes fixed on the swinging kitchen doors. "Every address she's lived at, every job she's worked, every debt she owes. I want her file on my desk by midnight."
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"Boss, you think she's a threat?" Dante asked, puzzled.
"No," Rico murmured, a cold, calculated gleam entering his gaze. "I think she's the only person in New York who can manage my son. And in my world, when you find something irreplaceable, you don't fire it... you acquire it."
