Page 25 of Obsessed Bratva King

“The tomato basil soup barely sells, and it’s the only thing using fresh tomatoes in bulk,” I explain. “The caprese salad isn’t popular, either. You’re buying for dishes that don’t move, which means we’re throwing money in the trash.”

He stares at me. Then down at the receipts. Then back at me. “Huh,” he mutters. “You don’t say.”

I shrug, wiping down the counter. “You should adjust the order. Swap out the extra tomatoes for more potatoes. The steak frites and shepherd’s pie are the biggest sellers, and we ran out of potatoes early yesterday and the day before.”

Emilio rubs the back of his neck. “Damn. You’re right.”

I just give a small nod and move to grab a fresh stack of napkins, ignoring the strange flicker of approval in his eyes.

I don’t need approval. I just need this place to keep running so I can keep getting paid.

The feeling of being watched lingers, and by the time I slip into the back room for a break, it’s settled under my skin.

I lean against the cool wall, pressing my hand to my stomach, waiting for the unease to pass. My nausea is faint now, barely there, but the exhaustion creeping into my bones is new. I shake it off, not willing to dwell on it.

I hear Emilio’s footsteps before I see him. He pauses in the doorway, watching me like he wants to say something. I straighten, pushing off the wall, but he doesn’t move any closer.

“You okay?” he asks.

His voice is careful.Toocareful. Like he’s tiptoeing around something.

I nod, brushing past him before he can question me further. He doesn’t stop me. He never does. In fact, I notice again—he’s afraid of me. Like my landlord.

Not in an obvious way. He doesn’t flinch when I walk by or treat me like I’m dangerous. But there’s a nervousness in the way he speaks to me, in the way he avoids meeting my eyes for too long.

It doesn’t make sense. I’m just a waitress.

The afternoon drags on. I lose myself in the rhythm of work. Another table to clean, another drink to pour, another polite smile to give.

And yet the feeling won’t go away.

I glance out the window as I pass by.

A car sits across the street. Black. Unmoving.

I stop for half a second, my grip tightening on the tray in my hands.

It’s nothing. Just a car. I force myself to move, to keep going. But later, when I look again, it’s still there.

And I could swear I saw it yesterday.

“Can I get the check please?”

I turn around, fixing a smile on my face. “Sure. Be right with you.”

7

IVAN

She moves inside the restaurant, weaving between tables, balancing trays, offering professional smiles to people who don’t deserve them.

I watch from my SUV, parked just far enough that I won’t be noticed but close enough that I can see everything. She has no idea that every step she takes is monitored.

She thinks she’s free.

But I never let go.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, keeping my breathing steady, forcing myself not to get out. Not to cross the street. Not to walk in there, take her by the wrist, and remind her that she belongs to me. To fuck her over that table where she’s writing down an order.

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