Page 100 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
I did a quick sweep of the small space, checking closets and under the bed, but found nothing out of place. If anything, the apartment was neater than I’d left it—the breakfast dishes washed and put away, the bed made with precise corners, a fresh bouquet of flowers on the kitchen table.
“Mrs. Patel’s been busy,” I murmured, though I was surprised by the attention to detail. The woman was efficient, not fussy. Maybe she was going soft in her old age. Or maybe she felt sorry for me, which was somehow worse.
I showered quickly, changed into sleep clothes, and collapsed into bed, too tired to even eat. The sheets smelled fresh, like they’d just been laundered with a detergent slightly nicer than the bargain brand I usually bought. Mrs. Patel must have changed them while I was at work. I made a mental note to thank her tomorrow and maybe set some boundaries about entering my apartment when I wasn’t home, no matter how well intentioned her help might be.
As I drifted toward sleep, I caught a faint scent on the pillow, something subtle that tickled at the edge of my awareness. Probably just residue from whatever cleaning products Mrs. Patel had used, or maybe it was the laundry detergent.
For the first time in weeks, I didn’t dream of being hunted. I slept deeply, peacefully, like I was finally safe.
I dragged my exhausted body to work, every muscle aching intensely. After telling Reynolds I quit last night, I’d spent hours staring at my ceiling early this morning, calculating how many days I could survive without income. The answer was depressingly few. So here I was, crawling back to the only place that would hire an omega without paperwork, hoping Reynolds would pretend my dramatic exit never happened. Pride is a luxury for people who can afford to eat.
When I pushed through the back door, the kitchen was already in full breakfast swing—line cooks shouting orders aggressively, servers rushing in and out with plates balanced precariously on their arms.
“Hart,” Reynolds barked, appearing suddenly with a clipboard. “Schedule change. You’re on mornings now, five a.m. to one p.m.”
I blinked, waiting for him to mention my dramatic exit last night or fire me on the spot. “Mornings? Since when?”
“Since now.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes, which was unusual. Reynolds typically stared down omegas with intimidating intensity. “Early shift needs more coverage.”
“But you said the early shift was?—”
“Just take the damn schedule change,” he snapped, thrusting a printed sheet at me. “Consider yourself lucky.”
Lucky wasn’t the word I’d use. This had to be his revenge, forcing me to drag myself in at the ass-crack of dawn. Classic power move. Still, morning shifts meant fewer customers, which meant less chance of running into those businessmen with wandering hands and entitlement issues.
“Fine,” I said, pocketing the schedule. “I’m here now. Should I start on the breakfast dishes, or would you prefer I compose an epic poem about your leadership skills first?”
Reynolds just grunted and walked away, his usual swagger notably absent. As I tied on my apron, I noticed several staff members watching me with expressions that weren’t their usual “look, it’s the omega dishwasher, let’s make his life hell.” Instead, they looked almost… nervous?
“What’s his problem?” I asked Megan when she brought in a stack of plates. “Did someone replace his morning steroids with decaf?”
Megan glanced around before leaning closer, her blond ponytail swinging conspiratorially. “You didn’t hear? Reynolds got called to a meeting late last night.”
“What kind of meeting?”
She shrugged. “No idea, but he’s been walking on eggshells ever since. And get this—he fired Brad this morning.”
“Brad?” I stopped mid-scrape, a glob of congealed egg sliding sadly back into the sink.
“Reynolds told him to clear out his locker and not come back.” She raised an eyebrow significantly. “Caught him with his hand in the till, apparently. Oh, and those businessmen I told you about yesterday…”
“The ones who were getting handsy?”
“Yeah, heard they got mugged last night leaving some bar downtown. This neighborhood’s getting worse by the day.”
“Mugged?” I echoed. “That’s… unfortunate.”
“Is it, though?” Megan smirked. “Karma’s only a bitch if you are. Anyway, gotta run. Table six is having an existential crisis over their eggs Benedict.”
The shift passed in a strange haze of surrealistic normalcy. The physical work was the same—endless dishes, steam that turned my skin to a prune, the smell of industrial detergentthat would probably give me some exotic cancer in thirty years. But everything else had shifted. Line cooks who used to “accidentally” bump into me now gave me a wide berth. Servers who had ignored my existence suddenly remembered to say “please” and “thank you” when dropping off dirty dishes, like they’d all attended an emergency etiquette seminar.
When my shift ended, I changed out of my work clothes in the cramped employee bathroom, pulling my hood up despite the warm afternoon. By the time I reached my building, it was midafternoon. I climbed the stairs slowly, my body aching from the long shift, my mind still churning with unanswered questions.
As I reached my floor, I noticed Mrs. Patel’s door was open, classical music drifting into the hallway. I paused, then knocked gently on the doorframe.
“Mrs. Patel? It’s Ty.”
“Tyberius! Come in, come in!” Her voice boomed with surprising strength for a woman in her sixties.
