Page 19 of Giovanni the Savage

I take a deep breath in, plaster a fake smile, and walk out of the kitchen to find Fiona fuming; I wouldn’t be surprised if fumes started to emit from her over-pierced ears.

I don’t have a problem with piercings, just when it’s on the wrong person. However, they're perfect when it’s on the right person, like how it was on my savior. I only caught sight of two of his piercings, that and his perfect face have been embedded in my head, however hard I try to forget.

Most of the time, I catch myself regretting I didn’t introduce myself, but then I remind myself it’s for a good cause. My only mission is to save myself and my brother, which is why the face of some nameless stranger shouldn’t be lurking in my memory.

After my little pep talk, I walk over to my boss while tightening my apron belt. A nervous habit, but with how often I do it during my shifts, I might choke myself to death someday.

“Where have you been, missy?” she asks, sizing me up. I refuse to think about the fact that I might break her in half if given the chance and given our size difference. She’s petite, while I’m inches taller than her.

However, I remind myself that she’s bigger than me right now, at least while I still haven’t gotten my paycheck.

“I was in the kitchen, helping Gwen out.”

Like you instructed about five minutes ago. What does she have? Dementia?

“And left the station unattended to?” She nods to the empty register and looks back at me.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m going to get right to work.

Just as I’m about to turn away from her, she spills some more bullshit.

“I hope you know, Luna, that your job is hanging by a fucking thread.” She creates a hole between two of her scrawny fingers. “And the next thing you do just might be the reason you get fired.”

I inhale deeply and banish the challenge from my eyes.

“I’m going to get right to work,” I repeat slowly.

She blinks at me, and her reaction means she can’t tell whether or not I insulted her.

I didn’t, but someone as insecure as she is would think I did.

I turn away from her and move to stand behind the register.

“On second thought,” she calls out again.

I look up at her with a bored look. “Serve,” she finishes, pushing a full tray into my hand.

She can’t just let me win.

“Table seven.” She grins before sashaying away unto her next torture victim.

Once again, I tighten the laces of my apron, then loosen them as an afterthought because if I die here, she’d probably hide my body somewhere.

I look at the tag and see it’s actually table seventeen, and not table seven.

Fucker even told me the wrong table.

Another ploy of hers to scream my name again.

I hate serving. Anyone would hate it, especially when the people you’re serving are mostly rich, misogynistic assholes who leave tips as small as their dicks.

The café is a few blocks away from what is called Industry Street. That’s where most big companies are, and many CEOs patronize the café after work. Which is what makes it even harder to work here.

I take a deep breath and begin the work on table seventeen. I’m judging each of the men at the table, from their expensive suits to their loud laughter. Nothing good ever comes out of that.

“Hello, gents.” I approach them with a confident stride and polite smile. “Order for table seventeen.”

I bend slightly and begin to place their orders down, and I’m grateful they ignore me while I'm on the task. Ignoring me is way better than ogling.

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