Applying As A Waitress In Vincenzo's Club

“If I may ask, why did you choose to work here?” He asked, his eyes locked on mine.

“Because I can't find a job elsewhere,” I replied sternly. 

He raised a brow at me before batting his lashes in astonishment.

That wasn't the answer he expected—I knew that wasn't the answer I should be giving, but considering the fact that I had nothing, absolutely no 'good' reason why I chose to work at the most highly committed crime club in New York, then it was better off I get straight to the point.

“Okay? So, why should I employ you?” 

“Because I can't find a job elsewhere,” I repeated, my gaze momentarily roaming about the club before going back to meet his puzzled look.

“If I may ask, do you realize where you are?”

I sucked in a dry breath, drawing back the confidence that was slowly oozing out of me. His question had a lot to say.

I knew where I was and I also knew I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here applying as a waitress in a club owned by the notorious gang leader that his reputation was enough to get me shaking on my feet just by stepping my feet in his club. But, do I have a choice? No. 

As far as my complicated life was concerned, this was the only place I thought, maybe, I could get employed.

I nodded my head before responding, “Yes!”

He sighed as he also drew in a long deep breath as if thinking of the right word to use before speaking.

“Do you realize that your resumé is not required here so you should give me a good impression?” 

Again, I nodded my head gaining an almost-unnoticed eye roll from him. He stared at me for a while before speaking.

“Did you even try?”

His eyes, which seemed to be obviously grabbing hold of my whole being, taking in everything I had placed on, I knew exactly what he meant. Did I try?—Did I even try to look good for this job?

“No, I didn't,” I grumbled, lowering my gaze to meet the floor. He scoffed and then chuckled mockingly.

“So, why are you here—?”

“Because I need the job,” I replied, almost cutting him mid-sentenced; my tone sounding a bit persistent this time.

I needed the job—my persistent tone had proven how much I needed the job. 

Everything I did, every one of my stern words and even my expressionless-confident appearance was to hide the fear that has been building up in me. I was at “Vincenzo Ace's” club and I still can't believe it myself. If they had told me that I would be here, even in a million years, I wouldn't have believed it.

I feared the man I was applying as a waitress in his club—everyone, literally everyone in New York feared him. He was the devil, the monster, he takes lives, destroys and permanently ruins one's life.

The stinking reputation that followed his name has always been rumored all over New York, and even to my hearings, yet, the complications, and the misery I lived in, have led me here to apply to that one club that has recorded so many accounts of murder, all of those, in Vincenzo's name.

“We need—” He paused, taking a moment to stare at me right from my head to my toe before he continued to speak, “sexy-looking workers. At least, you must have heard of that.”

Again, I nodded my head without uttering a word.

Sincerity was all I could afford at this point. I have heard of that. I have heard a lot more. I have heard so much that despite it being my first time here, I knew the almighty Vincenzo Ace had his office up on the second floor.

My gaze which feared death has been moving on its own accord to check the stairs that lead directly to the devil's office.

Despite the numerous clubs Vincenzo had, my bad luck ended me at the one club his office was at.

He could be up there, he could be anywhere close. But as they say, Vincenzo wasn't the type to be interested in the affairs of his workers cause he had so many people in charge of that and he was a busy person traveling here and there for business, to begin with.

And because I knew perfectly that even though I ended up working in his club, we were most likely to never cross part, I had to grab hold of that as my only motivation to be here at this moment.

But the fear—the fear of breathing the same air he might be breathing right now – the fear of standing here where so many people have been murdered under his merciless grip, gun, or knife, I just couldn't possibly think straight.

“I know I am not fit enough for this job—” I began saying but he cut me off.

“Thank goodness you know that.” 

I continued speaking anyway.

“But—”

“There's no “but.” We can't give you this job, Ms.” He uttered the words so harshly that I knew he had been dying to say that a long time ago.

If my life hasn't taken such twists, then I should be so happy to run out of this place that seems to have filled my brain with so many scary imaginations. The reputation keeps on sending different thoughts to my head.

But if I leave now, where will I turn to? I can't possibly go back to my dad after running away from home. 

The thought of going back scares me. I have to see my father again, raise his hands at me, call me names, yell at me, and even sometimes lock me up—all of those, for my tiniest mistakes. I can't. I can't return to the nightmares I had run away from.

Returning to him was like going back to get punished for running away in the first place. The consequences this time would surely be unbearable.

“If you had put on more appealing clothes, I definitely would have considered giving you this job.” He murmured while turning to place a bottle of drink on the shelf.

He had confidence that appealing clothes would have gotten me the job, but I didn't have that much confidence in myself. I never grew up to meet a dad who made me see my beauty. My dad was a living nightmare, and I, standing here with the intention of working here only proves that I had bad luck. I had run away from a monster, only to end up applying for a job in the club of the most feared man in New York. Jesus!

“I can—do, do anything to get this job. I can—” I stuttered but eventually ran out of words. I sighed, running my hands through my hair in obvious frustration.

He halted his movement for a while before letting out, “I mean—” then turned around to face me and leaned forward over the counter. A little smile arched the corner of his lips.

His voice went significantly lower as he spoke, “You are just my type. If I can have a taste of you tonight, I guarantee you that the job is yours.”

I stared at him for a while before taking a step back, creating some space between us.

A big jerk he was. I wasn't appealing enough to get the job but I was just his type to mess with.

I could remember how it was trying to get in here. I had stood outside of the club, contemplating, thinking, regretting my decisions from a week back till this moment, and before I knew it, two hours had gone by and I was still there, roaming about outside the club. 

So I made the decision. If I go in there, I must get the job, but if It gets beyond me, then I won't force it. I won't bite more than I could chew and shamefully return to my dad regardless of if he treats me like garbage.

I have tried all I could, yet, my dad won anyway. He didn't come over to this city to get me because he wanted to prove one thing to me:

I can't live without him, and so far, truly, he was just right.

I opened my mouth to speak but his ringing phone cut me off. When he pulled out the phone from his pants pocket and looked at the screen, his whole body got noticeably tense. He stared at it for the longest second, as if, pondering over something before finally sliding over the answer Icon.

“Hello, Capo.” He said to the caller on the other end.

Regardless, I muttered what I was going to say to him anyway. “Thanks for your time,” before grabbing my bag 

I won't and I can't, regardless of the situation I find myself in, sell my body for anything. So, leaving without making a fuss was a better option. I had to keep my anger in check so I won't end up making a mistake even at a place like this.

I knew a lot of them. Begging and being persistent about how much I needed the job will only give him more opportunity to stand firm on his words of sleeping with me first before I get the job. I wasn't doing that anymore. I, obviously, was tired of begging, but still, nothing good comes out of it at the end of the day, and since I know this would end up like the others, I'd rather leave. Quietly.

And so, I turned on my heels and began walking towards the exit door.

I give up. I end this rollercoaster terrible ride of running away from home. I will be returning to my dad. Shamefully—

“Hey, wait!” 

I heard him call and I halted before turning to face him. Just then he slid his phone into his pants pocket before motioning for me to come over.

What was he trying to do? Continue his conversation about sleeping with me for the job? I think I need to make the clarification that I wasn't that cheap.

“I'm sorry for wasting your time but I simply cannot do what you've asked me to—”

“The Boss said I should get you employed.” He cut me off, ignorantly.

I couldn't believe the turnout but still, silence enveloped me as a bittersweet feeling hit me. 

Wait… what? I got the job. I finally got employed!

I won't be returning to my dad!

I can finally make some money on my own and continue staying far away from my dad. 

Everything and every reason for me to be excited about getting this job were because of my dad! The rotten reputation of this club, and the sane part of me that has constantly been reminding me that this wasn't a place I should be, had gone significantly lower until it vanished. 

Excitement built in me but just when my lips were about to stretch out in a smile, my build-up excitement crumbled right in front of me, when a certain word struck me—a certain word I had ignorantly ignored – a certain word that could get me into more shit than I already was.

Did he just say the “Boss” said I should get you employed?

My lips fell apart – my eyes widened as I walked over to him. Once I was standing right in front of him, I leaned over on the counter and asked, completely taken aback. “The Capo you mentioned earlier was—? I mean the boss—”

He furrowed his brows taking a moment to process my words. Probably wondering why I'd just asked him a question with an already-obvious answer. 

I, personally, had chosen to not believe my ears.

He shook his head and asked, “Who do you think owns this place?” 

My hands trembled as I cupped my mouth. The realization I had ignored hit me so hard this time.

Did I just get noticed by the devil? 

No!

I just got noticed by the devil – I just got noticed by VINCENZO ACE!

Didn't they say he wasn't the type to be interested in the affairs of his workers? Didn't they say—?

How in the world did he see me?