Page 97 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
I didn’t need to look up to know it was Brad, one of the line cooks who’d made it his personal mission to make my life hell. An alpha with more testosterone than brain cells, a dangerous combination that evolution really should have weeded out by now. Brad seemed personally offended by my existence, as if my omega status was a direct insult to his alpha masculinity.
“Kind of busy here, Brad,” I said, not pausing in my work. “Unless you’ve come to help with the dishes, in which case, the apocalypse must be upon us. Should I start building an ark?”
“Got a delivery coming in. Manager says you need to help unload.”
I glanced at the mountain of lunch dishes still waiting, a towering pile that threatened to topple over. “I’m kind of in the middle of something. Something that rhymes with ‘my actual job.’”
Brad’s hand landed heavily on my shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to hurt. “Wasn’t a request, omega.”
I shrugged off his hand, biting back the retort that would definitely get me fired and possibly get my teeth rearranged. “Fine. Let me finish this rack.”
“Now,” he growled, letting a hint of alpha command slip into his voice.
My omega biology responded before my brain could intervene, my shoulders hunching slightly in submission. Ihated it, hated him, hated my own body for betraying me yet again. I needed this job. Needed the money. Needed to stay invisible. But something in me rebelled today, a tiny spark of resistance that refused to be extinguished. Maybe it was the lingering effects of the nightmare or maybe my omega instincts were finally developing some self-respect.
“Whatever you say, alpha,” I said, my words dripping with sarcasm as I stripped off my gloves. “Lead the way to your precious delivery. I’m sure the fate of the free world depends on those boxes of frozen mozzarella sticks.”
Brad smirked, clearly enjoying the power trip, and led me toward the loading dock. I followed, keeping a careful distance. As we passed the swinging doors to the dining room, I caught a glimpse of the lunch crowd—businesspeople in expensive suits, most of them alphas judging by their confident postures and the way the staff fawned over them.
“Keep moving, omega,” Brad snapped, noticing my distraction.
I tore my gaze away, heart hammering in my chest. It wasn’t that I was looking for anyone specific. Definitely not. Just a natural wariness of rooms full of alphas. That’s all.
For the rest of my shift, I jumped at shadows, flinching whenever someone passed by the kitchen doors. By closing time, my nerves were frayed completely, and an unexpected wave of nausea rolled through me as I was cleaning the final batch of pots.
“Great,” I said, swallowing hard against the sudden queasiness. “Just what I need. Food poisoning from the staff meal I barely touched. Or maybe it’s just my body’s natural reaction to Brad’s personality. Medical science should look into that—alpha-induced nausea. I could be a case study.”
“You okay, Ty?”
I looked up to see Megan, one of the few servers who actually acknowledged my existence as something more than a dish-cleaning automaton. She was a beta with kind eyes and a no-nonsense attitude that I appreciated, mainly because she treated me like a person instead of a walking secondary gender.
“Yeah, just tired,” I said, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Long day of living the dream, you know? Scraping other people’s half-eaten food into garbage cans. It’s what I went to school for.”
She studied me for a moment, then reached into her apron and pulled out a paper bag. “Here. Leftover tiramisu. Was gonna get thrown out anyway.”
It was an obvious lie, the restaurant never had leftover desserts, but I appreciated the gesture. “Thanks, Megan. My hero, saving innocent tiramisu from a cruel fate in the garbage.”
“Don’t mention it.” She glanced around, then lowered her voice. “Hey, just a heads-up. There were some alphas asking about you today.”
My blood turned to ice. “What?”
“Corporate types. Noticed you when you passed by the dining room. Asked if you were available for ‘private events.’” She made air quotes with her fingers, her disgust evident. “Manager told them to talk to him after hours.”
The implication was clear. My status as an omega made me a commodity to be bought and sold, even here in this greasy kitchen where I’d thought I was invisible.
“Great,” I said. “Just what I need. As if this job wasn’t soul-crushing enough, now I get to be auctioned off like a prize pig at the county fair.”
“Be careful leaving tonight,” Megan advised. “Maybe go out the back way.”
I nodded, grateful for the warning. “Thanks, Megan. I owe you one.”
“Just save me a seat when you open your own bakery someday,” she said with a wink, then headed back to the dining room.
Her casual confidence in my future, a future beyond dishwashing and hiding, caught me off guard. I’d almost forgotten that I used to have dreams. Used to be someone beyond “that male omega” or “De Luca’s breeder” or “the alphas’ plaything.”
I used to be Ty Hart, baker extraordinaire, future pastry chef with my own shop. The boy who could make sourdough rise perfectly and croissants so flaky they’d make a French chef weep with joy.
The memory of that former self was deeply painful. I finished my shift in silence, the weight of everything I’d lost pressing down on me heavily.
