Page 11 of Gray Area

After his trip to the clean table, the busboy returns to the kitchen. I look around at the other staff, but since it is a weeknight, there aren’t many of them. The only waitress is busy between two tables bringing out orders, and the bartender has been doing the weekly stock while also tending bar. This bar is one of the older ones, and it isn’t generally busy during the week, so we keep staffing to a minimum. Apparently that has led to things slipping through the cracks.

I am pulled from my thoughts as the crew the busboy has just interacted with are now quickly getting up and leaving. They all but run to the door, the guy who has been on the phone fist-bumping the bouncer on his way out.

I lean forward, and the bartender comes over to me. “How long has that bouncer been here?”

“That one? Two weeks,” he says.

“And?”

“He doesn’t speak a lot of English. He’s quiet.”

I nod. “And the busboy?”

“He came about the same time. He’s up to no good,” he says. “I can’t prove it, but bad vibes.”

I nod and get out my phone, sending my dad and brothers a text, then I take my hat off and head to the back kitchen. I say hello to a couple of guys I know back there as I make my wayto the dishwasher area where the new employee is standing with his back to me.

“You Dennis?” I ask him.

He’s a short shit, maybe five feet six, and when I say his name, he whirls around to me with a sour look on his face and looks me up and down. “Who the fuck wants to know?”

Silence falls over the kitchen.

I’m tolerant of a lot of things, but one thing that makes me rabid with rage is being disrespected, especially in my own bar. And for this fucking piece of shit to do it in my own family business, in front of my employees, makes me see red. Dennis seems to see the fury rise in me, and I see a tremor of fear run through him, but I have to hand it to him, he doesn’t back down.

“I’m Declan Falco,” I say softly and watch as the color drains from his face. “And it’s time for your employee review,” I tell him, giving him a humorless smile.

Dennis’s eyes widen. “I—”

I shake my head. “Oh no, please, let’s finish this talk in the office,” I tell him, putting my hand firmly around his throat. “I believe the rest of the HR team is awaiting our arrival.” I drag Dennis by his neck out of the kitchen through a side door and down a long corridor, then into the office area of the bar.

My father is sitting behind the desk when I get to the doorway with Dennis, and my brother Slade is leaning against the front of the desk. Slade is a friendly looking fucker, with his blond hair and blue-gray eyes. He looks like the boy next door, and it always deceives people. He is good at putting people at ease. People look at him and see kindness. Slade hides his crazy well.

This is a quality I have never gotten the hang of.

“Welcome!” Slade says jovially. “Heard you’re new here.”

But even with Slade’s welcoming appearance, Dennis seems pretty hesitant to enter the room. I give him a healthy shoveinside to help him make the right decision, and then slam the door to the room shut.

“How did you get this job?” I ask Dennis, as I shove him into the waiting chair and then go stand near Slade.

“I heard about it from a friend,” Douche Dennis says, his eyes wide but his voice surprisingly steady. He’s playing it off well, but I watch as his pupils dilate and his eyes dart around. He’s ready to fight.

“And what’s this friend’s name?” Slade coaches.

“Marco.”

I tense at his brief reply. “Marco who?”

“I don’t know his last name—”

“Listen, kid,” my father cuts in from his spot at the desk, his deep gravelly voice level and soft. “I have been sitting here for thirty seconds awaiting a very simple answer that you haven’t given my sons. They have shown great patience, but let me assure you my patience is just about to fucking snap. I don’t have it in me to slowly drag this shit out of you. So start fucking talking.”

The door to the office crashes open, and a bloodied lump is thrown into the room, followed by my brother Axel. I recognize the lump, after some squinting, as the bouncer I’d seen just minutes earlier at the door.

I look from the bouncer to Dennis, and Dennis is suddenly a lot paler than when he first entered the room.

“Vavito,” Dennis spits out quickly at the sight of the lump on the floor. “His name is Marco Vavito.”

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