Chapter 0001

Six months ago, I was a promising med student on the verge of all my dreams coming true, but now I’m just a waitress trying to start over in a new city.

I know this restaurant I work at has ties to the infamous Onyx Mafia, but I didn’t have much choice—it's the best-paying job I could find.

Besides, the scariest thing about working here isn’t the Mafia, it is the man at table eight flagging me down, pissed as hell.

“What looks wrong here?” He snaps and I scan table eight's orders. Foie gras for the blonde in red, Peking duck for the pouty daughter—check. But the impatient bald man tapping his fingers? He got the risotto, not the ribeye currently in front of him.

A cold sweat sweeps down my spine as I look between the squinting gaze of the man and the squiggles that are my handwriting. I still write like a surgeon, yet another reminder of my failed dreams. "Wait, I'm sorry... you ordered--"

My hands tremble, and my heart sinks as I realize the kitchen couldn’t decipher my handwriting and just took a guess. Lucky me, their guess was wrong. "I-I think the kitchen--"

Before I can finish my sentence, Jessica descends upon us like a vulture, risotto in hand. "Apologies for the inconvenience," she chimes in, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. "Elise here is still learning the ropes."

"I can tell," the man responds curtly, his attention entirely on Jessica, silently dismissing me. There goes my tip.

"Sir, I noticed you’re drinking the 1984 Chateau. Let me send another round on the house for your troubles," Jessica offers breathlessly, her cleavage on full display as she leans in, her eyes batting just like they did back in high school.

The man grunts in agreement as her fingers dig into my arm like talons. She whispers through clenched teeth, "Kitchen. Now."

I bow my head obediently as I follow her into the chaos of the kitchen.

When I moved here, I promised things were going to be different. I would be no one’s stepping stool, and yet here I am again, at the mercy of another girl who appears oblivious to the fact that we graduated high school.

“Elise struck again, boys!” Tony, the sous chef, calls out, his laughter echoing through the kitchen. “What was it this time? Dropped another soup? Tripped and broke all the glasses?”

In my defense, the soup incident happened because a man groped me, and Jessica tripped me while I was carrying glasses for an 18-person table.

“Oh, tonight she gave one of our regulars the wrong meal.”

“It’s the kitchen’s fault. I ordered a risotto, not a ribeye."I retort, pushing my glasses up as I glare at Jessica.

“And who could tell with that chicken scratch handwriting?” Tony snorts.

“Remember she wanted to be a surgeon,” Jessica sneers. “Doctors notoriously have terrible handwriting, but not waitresses.”

The other kitchen staff snicker at her remark. They all think I went to med school and couldn’t cut it. But they don't know the truth, and it would be worse if they did.

I take a deep breath, trying to push down my anger. "You were supposed to be a surgeon, marry Sirius, live your perfect little life," she snaps back, the mention of his name, Sirius, still a sucker punch to the gut after all these years.

I bite my lip to stifle the retort that threatens to spill from my lips and look down at my tennis shoes, a lump forming in my throat. I can still remember the feeling of the day he disappeared.

I told everyone he loved me, that he would be back, and that he would never just leave me, but they were all right. He was gone. He didn’t want me anymore and wasn’t brave enough to say it to my face before disappearing.

I don’t know what I’d do if I ever saw him again. It’d be a combination of running into his arms, waiting to see every bit of his life I missed, and kicking him where the sun doesn't shine. "But then you ended up at the bottom, where you’re meant to be."

I hold my breath. I can’t show Jessica she’s getting to me.

"Good thing Sirius came to his senses like we all knew he would," Jessica retorts. "Once he was done slumming it, he ran away from you as fast as possible. I mean, you practically ran him out of town."

The lump in my throat swells as memories of his abandonment flood back, the pain still fresh. "You know what--"

"Those better are words of gratitude, Elise, because I am two seconds away from firing you," Jessica interrupts, her smirk widening as she relishes in my discomfort.

I swallow back my retort, facing Mr. Thompson, the restaurant manager.

Mr. Thompson's stern gaze pierces through me as he approaches. "Elise, why do I have Mr. Kelsey asking for a free bottle of wine for his troubles?"

"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Thompson," I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'll do better, I promise."

"You have been promising to do better for weeks, Elise. That is not enough anymore," he snaps.

"I'll work harder, I swear," I plead, desperation creeping into my voice. "Please."

Mr. Thompson holds up a hand to silence me. "You've got one more chance, Elise, but you’re out of here if I hear one more complaint. Do you understand?"

I nod frantically."Yes, Mr. Thompson. I won't let you down. I promise."

He scoffs, clearly unconvinced. "For the rest of your shift, you are exclusive to the VIPs upstairs," he continues, his tone stern. "They’re too drunk to notice your insolence."

"Yes, sir," I whisper.

"And you better be on your best behavior because the Mafia king is here," Mr. Thompson warns. "And if I don’t have your head, he will."

I swallow hard, the weight of his words settling like a lead weight in the pit of my stomach, as I nod, feeling a shiver run down my spine.

Mr. Thompson storms off into his office, leaving Jessica behind me with a wicked gleam in her eye. "Looks like you're on thin ice, Elise," Jessica says, her tone dripping with faux sympathy. "Better watch your step."

"Why? You’re going to trip me?"

"I would never, but since you are exclusive to VIPs," Jessica hands me a tray of appetizers too heavy for me to hold without almost falling over. "Take this to table 19... the King’s subjects are there."

I take a deep breath as I walk out of the kitchen and into the dining room. But as I look up at the men sitting upstairs, a wave of dread washes over me, making me want to run in the opposite direction.

They're overly comfortable, as if they own the place as if they own the world. And in a way, they do. The rumors swirling around the restaurant's ownership, whispers of connections to the mafia, suddenly feel all too real. Each step closer to the VIP room feels heavier, as if I am dragging myself closer.

As I approach, the men’s eyes leering over me like predators sizing up their prey. The minute I set down the appetizers, a hand grips the back of my thigh, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Hey there, sweetheart," the man slurs, his breath reeking of alcohol as he pulls me into his lap. "Why don’t you clock out and hang with the big dogs?"

I squirm, feeling his hand wander where it shouldn't."No. Stop it. I have to get back to work," I protest, trying to push him away.

But he only laughs, his grip tightening as his friends jeer and egg him on. I squirm, feeling something hard poking my bottom, I beg to panic. He hisses in excitement in my ear. “Yeah, baby, keep doing that.” I try to pull away, causing my glasses to go flying. Great, now I’m blind too.

I jerk my body, tears stinging as I attempt to slide out of his lap, “I need my glasses.”

“You do not need glasses for what we are going to do.” He pinches my chin, leaning in as if he is going to kiss me, but the sound of a growling, cleared throat causes him to pause.

Panic rises in my throat as I realize that none of these guys will help me and that going against the Mafia for some random waitress is a losing battle.

"In my restaurant, we do not tolerate harassment of women," the voice declares, cutting through the VIP, firm and unwavering. The handsy man practically throws me onto the floor as he looks up at the gentleman standing in front of him.

I turn to see, in my blurry haze, the silhouette of a man looming protectively over me, his presence exuding authority and strength. The handsy man stutters as the man approaches us, “King. She approached me.”

“Really? Are you calling me a liar?” The Mafia King’s voice is calm and sharp, like a shard of ice.

“ No, my King, but she is a call girl!” I snap, looking back at the handsy man before turning to the King to plead my case. But I pause. The King’s head is tilted as he looks at me.

The King’s voice is laced with disappointment and concern, “A call girl?”