Page 107 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
It had felt like belonging.
I slammed the door on that thought and headed for work, determined to focus on survival and nothing else. No time for inconvenient feelings or unexplained nausea.
No time for the truth I couldn’t afford to face, that I hadn’t just left my body in that compound. I’d left pieces of my heart too.
The restaurant kitchen was eerily quiet when I slipped in through the back door. The dining area wouldn’t open for another hour, but early prep was already underway—the skeleton crew of morning staff moving with the slow precision of people whose bodies hadn’t fully accepted being awake.
“Morning, sunshine,” Luis said, already elbow-deep in vegetable prep. His usual sarcasm was softened by the shared misery of the predawn shift. “You look even worse than yesterday.”
“Thanks for the status update on my appearance,” I replied, filling the industrial sink with scalding water and detergent. “I was going for ‘death warmed over’ but clearly achieved ‘actual corpse’ instead. I’ll try harder tomorrow.”
Luis actually laughed—a genuine laugh, not the derisive snort I’d come to expect. Another bizarre shift in the staff’s behavior. The restaurant crew had undergone a collective personality transplant where I was concerned. Not friendship, exactly, but something closer to cautious respect. Like they’d all received a memo stamped Be Nice to the Omega or Else.
I settled into the mind-numbing rhythm of scrubbing the previous night’s baking sheets and prep bowls. Morning shift meant different responsibilities—cleaning yesterday’s closingmess, preparing stations for the breakfast rush, and helping with basic prep when the dish pit was momentarily empty. It was harder work but with fewer people around to harass me.
By seven thirty, the kitchen had transformed into its daytime chaos. The breakfast rush was in full swing, corporate drones lining up for their caffeine fixes, already wearing the dead-eyed stares they’d maintain until happy hour.
“Reynolds just got in,” Luis said, jerking his head toward the front. “Said to send you to his office when you got a minute.”
Great. Reynolds probably wanted to change my shift again. The dishwasher position was already a masterclass in financial masochism.
I knocked on the office door.
“Enter,” Reynolds called, his voice tight.
I stepped inside to find Reynolds looking unusually nervous, his fingers drumming against his desk in an agitated rhythm. He gestured to the chair across from him without making eye contact.
“Hart. Good. Have a seat.”
I remained standing. “If this is about changing my shift again?—”
“No, no,” he interrupted, finally looking up with an expression that suggested someone was holding a gun to his back. “Actually, I wanted to discuss a promotion.”
I blinked. “A what now? Did you just say ‘promotion,’ or am I having an auditory hallucination? Because those usually come with visual components, and I’m not seeing any flying unicorns yet.”
“A promotion,” he repeated, shuffling papers nervously. “To assistant pastry chef. Starting next week. Comes with a significant pay increase, of course.”
I stared, waiting for the punch line. When none came, I slowly lowered myself into the chair, lightheaded with confusion.
“I’m a dishwasher,” I said slowly. “You know, the guy who scrapes half-eaten food into garbage cans? The omega you specifically told to ‘stay in the back where customers can’t smell you’? That guy?”
“Yes, well.” Reynolds cleared his throat, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “I’ve been informed of your previous experience in baking. Your, ah, qualifications were brought to my attention by our new investors.”
“New investors?” This conversation had taken a sharp left turn into bizarro world. “What new investors? And how do they know about my baking experience? I don’t remember listing ‘makes killer sourdough’ on my dishwasher application.”
“Recent acquisition,” he said vaguely, waving his hand dismissively. “Anyway, the position is yours if you want it. Morning shifts only, as per the current arrangement. Full benefits, including health insurance. Paid sick leave.”
My mind raced. This couldn’t be happening. Dishwashers didn’t get promoted to assistant pastry chef. Male omegas didn’t get offered positions with benefits and sick leave. Not in this city, not in this economy, not in this lifetime. This had “too good to be true” written all over it.
“Who are these investors?” I asked, suspicion crawling up my spine. “And how do they know about my baking experience? Did they run a background check on the dishwashing staff? Because that’s not concerning at all.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of ownership. But I can assure you, this is a legitimate offer.”
“Based on what? You’ve never even seen me bake. For all you know, I could be lying about my experience. Maybe I just really love watching baking shows and pretending I have skills.”
“As I said, your qualifications were… vouched for.” He pushed a contract across the desk. “The position starts Monday. Take the weekend to think it over if you need to.”
I made no move to take the papers. “And if I say no? If I’m perfectly happy washing dishes for minimum wage and no benefits?”
