Chapter 4
Don’t touch what’s not yours
Kazimir
The man I know as étienne turns his head in the direction of Mr. Douchebag and laughs.
What the fuck is so funny?
“Oh, no. No, no, no, monsieur,” he says. “Not possible. You make mistake.”
My head jerks back. “For a guy who wasn’t even on the premises when everything went down, I find it interesting you’ve already come to a conclusion without having all the facts. Were you blessed with the omnipresent gift?”
He wrinkles his nose at me. “Da what?”
“You don’t even know what happened, yet, you’re throwing Harley under the bus.”
étienne comes and stands in front of me, the top of his head reaching my chest. He tilts it back and narrows his eyes at me. “I do not understand your American saying. What I know is this man”—he points at the idiot smirking—“is good quality client.”
“You’re wrong.” I jab a finger in his direction.
He jabs one back at me. “You talk no sense, monsieur. I am étienne Leveaux. I am the manager. I am right.”
The Brazilian owner warned me about his eccentric thirty-seven-year-old manager. He never mentioned he suffered from a god complex.
My nostrils flare.
Through narrow eyes, I study Little Napoleon.
Everything is over-the-top. From the turquoise-colored linen suit, to the paisley motif ascot, to the fresh from the barber hairstyle, to his jet-black beard that matches that of a villain in a superhero movie, to the silver hair—which I doubt is natural.
With the strong accent, the guy is more cartoon than human.
“I take care of this. You go.” He shoos me off with a flippant hand gesture.
I place my arms behind my back and adopt a military stance. “I’m going nowhere.”
“Monsieur, this is not your business. Yes, you go.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Make me.”
“You think you are God. I am dee power here. You are nothing—”
“You’re in the presence of a hockey legend,” Erik says from behind me.
I peer over my shoulder and nod at my best friend.
He comes to stand next to me. “This man is the former center and team captain for the New York Blazers, three-time Stanley Cup winner, Olympic gold and silver medalist, Triple Gold Club member, and badass businessman Kazimir Lindstrom.”
“Je m’en fous éperdument.” étienne stomps a foot against the floor.
I only understand two words of French, but I’m guessing, Little Napoleon doesn’t give a flying fuck about my accomplishments.
“I witnessed it all,” I say. “And I’m telling you, the guy you labeled as good quality client is the culprit.”
“I saw it all unfold as well,” Erik says.
“I didn’t know what was happening at that table, but it didn’t look kosher,” a male patron says.
A few people nod.
étienne lifts his arms over his head and claps. “Every people stop talking.”
You could cut the tension in the restaurant with a butter knife.
Why would a manager defend a predator at the expense of one of his employees? He isn’t interested in hearing the truth.
My gaze travels to Harley.
The devastation I read in her eyes hits me in the gut.
Dammit, I need to get through Little Napoleon. “étienne—”
“It doesn’t matter what you saw,” Mr. Douchebag says, interrupting me. “Harley is responsible for ruining a customer’s suit. Not me.”
A blush crawls up her slender neck. Harley seems to shrink in size and the faint light I spotted in her eyes when I first saw her many minutes ago dies.
“You’re going to pay for my suit on this clumsy waitress’s behalf?”
My attention swings to the woman drenched in tomato and meat sauce. “I told you I would.”
“I don’t know you from Adam or Eve. That one here”—she points to Harley—“nearly caused me third degree burns because of her clumsiness. There’s no salvaging this suit. I want to make sure someone takes full responsibility for my predicament. Because I doubt Broke Hot Mess here—”
“She has a name. Use it. I don’t want to hear any more insults from your mouth. Not one.” I waggle my finger in her face.
The woman flinches then narrows her eyes on Harley’s name tag. “Harley doesn’t seem to have two pennies to rub together. I’d rather deal with someone who has money than go through the long proceeding of a lawsuit—which I won’t hesitate to do.”
I glower at her. “I’m not going to repeat myself, lady. I made you a promise, and I intend on keeping it.” So, shut your fucking mouth.
“This whole ordeal was unnecessary.” Mr. Douchebag’s words cause my teeth to clench.
“Yeah, you’re right. All you had to do was keep your filthy paws to yourself.” Don’t touch what’s not yours. My chest rises and falls.
“If she can’t do a decent job, she shouldn’t be working at Grazie Mille. Her actions sullied the reputation of this fine establishment.” Mr. Douchebag glances at the manager. “Our waitress is a liability, don’t you think, étienne?”
Our waitress?
What?
A more violent thought hits me with force.
Little Napoleon is the culprit. He’s the one screwing the Brazilian owner and Mr. Douchebag is involved someway. I’m certain of it.
Although all the legal papers are signed and I have the power to act on the Brazilian owner’s behalf, I tread with caution.
Today is about reconnaissance.
I don’t want to expose my cards yet.
If étienne is crooked, it’s no wonder he doesn’t care about doing the right thing.
My gaze lands on Harley. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?” The truth needs to come out. Little Napoleon needs to see sense.
Her eyes tear up.
Fuck.
“Well—”
“What is done is done.” étienne doesn’t allow her to speak. “Harley caused the good customer to be hurt. The hot tomato sauce it can burn the customer skin. The customer is telling us she will sue. That is because of Harley.” He turns to face her. “Your work not good. You are fired.”
What the fuck?
“You can’t fire me,” Harley says. “This was an accident caused by—”
“You were late today—”
“By three minutes—”
“Yesterday, same. Three minutes late.”
Why is this guy being such a hardass?
Harley frowns. “You called me on my day off at eleven-thirty to come in because you were short-staffed—”
“Not a reason for you to be three minutes late.”
This guy has zero professional decorum. You don’t air your dirty laundry in front of patrons. It leaves a bad taste in people’s mouths.
As much as I’m dying to unleash my full wrath on this moron, losing my temper won’t benefit Harley.
“No more talk. You go.” Little Napoleon slashes a hand through the air.
I get in his face and tower over him. “You have no right to humiliate her that way and you have no right to fire her. You’re a scumbag.”
“I am dee power here, monsieur.” Those words reek of dictatorship.
I lock eyes onto her. “Harley.” Her name leaps out of my mouth.
She lifts a hand up, cutting me off. “Drop it, Kaz.” With that, she turns on her heel and rushes out of the dining room.
I ready myself to go after her, but a commotion stops me in my tracks.
“NYPD! Everyone stay where you are.”
Who the hell contacted the police?
My gaze lands on Mr. Douchebag.
He smirks as he waves his phone in the air.
Motherfucker.