Chapter 6
LENI
I steal a glance at Fred from the corner of my eye and scoot a little closer as our small luxury bus weaves through the streets of Clinton Hill.
This is one of Brooklyn’s most affluent neighborhoods, and damn, it shows.
No wonder the pay is so high. Whoever’s hosting this event must be some celebrity or politician—those are usually the only people who live around here.
The person is also the one who provided this fancy bus.
“So, I’ve been thinking, Fred,” I start.
“No. I already hired someone else to take your spot at the diner, so you can’t possibly get your job back, Leni.”
I glance around at the other servers scattered throughout the bus—four guys and three women—but they’re all lost in their own worlds. Nobody’s paying attention to Fred crushing my soul. “You don’t even know if that’s what I was going to say.”
He shoots me a pointed look, and I clear my throat guiltily. “Just focus on this dinner, Leni. You can’t mess up.”
I run a hand over the tight, neat chignon I wrestled my hair into earlier, checking that every strand is still perfectly in place.
Even my bangs decided to play nice today—curled just right, not a single piece out of line.
I spent forty-five minutes getting it that way, which is saying something.
Usually, I don’t stress over my hair, but that’s how seriously I’m taking this job. “I won’t.”
“Getting this gig is a massive deal for my brand. Nobody from Brownsville has ever come this far. Doing well here tonight is absolutely crucial if I want to keep landing deals at this level.”
My mouth sets into a hard line. “I already said I won’t mess up, didn't I?” God, does he think I’m completely incompetent?
It’s not as if I deliberately showed up late to work knowing I would lose my job.
This is my one shot to make some money; I’m not stupid enough to ruin it.
Besides, what would even count as ‘messing up’ anyway?
Dropping a tray? Making eye contact with the wrong person? Existing too loudly?
I scoot back to my original seat and press my face to the window just as the bus slows down in front of a large pair of shiny gates.
A security guard steps forward, shining his flashlight directly into our faces while checking something on his tablet.
Geez. What kind of paranoid rich person needs this level of security for a dinner party?
Once he’s satisfied we’re not imposters or whatever, he signals to someone invisible, and the gates glide open with the kind of silence that screams expensive machinery.
We drive. And drive. And drive down what feels like the longest private road in existence before we finally reach a spiraling driveway.
But we don’t stop there. Oh no, we’re not worthy of the front door.
Instead, we’re shuttled around the enormous mansion lit up with bright lights, past a beautiful luscious garden, straight to a side door that might as well have a sign reading ‘Servants Only’.
Fred claps his hands. “Let’s go, people.”
We spill out of the bus in silence, and immediately a man approaches us. He introduces himself simply as ‘the butler’—no name, no pleasantries. A butler in this day and age? I resist the urge to let out an obnoxious snort. These rich folks don’t really know what to do with their money, do they?
The butler leads us through the back door into a small room lined with chairs that clearly serve one purpose.
This must be where they brief all the temporary staff, because he gestures for us to sit while he positions himself in the center of the room like he’s done this a hundred times before.
“My principal and his guests value their privacy immensely,” he begins.
“So no taking pictures of anybody or asking to take pictures with them.”
“Of course not. My staff are all professionals and—” Fred cuts off with a nervous chuckle when the butler throws him a single displeased look. It’s not exactly a glare—his expression barely changes at all—but the message is clear: shut up.
These people mean business. My spine straightens automatically.
“Carry the trays you’re assigned properly.
No spillage of drinks or food on the ballroom floor.
If you know you have shaky hands, leave now because mistakes won’t be tolerated.
” He stretches a hand towards the back door, scanning our faces.
Nobody so much as twitches. We all need this money too badly.
“You go in and out, quietly and efficiently. You’re not to be seen or heard.
Just the trays in your hands should be seen.
Once you’re in there, you’ll discover who’s hosting this event, so I might as well tell you now.
” He pauses dramatically, letting the suspense build. “It’s Senator Julian DeMarco.”
He waits, watching us expectantly like we should be squealing with excitement or recognition.
The name doesn’t even ring a bell. I doubt I’d recognize this senator even if he walked right up to me.
But then again, I’ve been too busy trying to make a living for three people without dying of exhaustion since I was old enough to work, so keeping tabs on the political elite hasn't exactly been my priority.
“Don’t stare at the senator or his guests. Don’t look any of them in the eye. Don’t say a word to them unless you’re spoken to directly. Understood?”
We nod like marionettes.
“Good. Any questions?”
Silence. Nobody dares ask anything.
He nods and gestures for us to stand, then leads us into the biggest kitchen I’ve ever seen. It’s so massive I swear our entire three-bedroom apartment could fit in here three times over. I’m not even exaggerating—this kitchen is obscene.
And it’s buzzing with activity. Dozens of chefs move in perfect choreography, cooking up what smells like a five-star dream.
The butler leaves us near the entrance and goes to speak to a woman who seems to be in charge.
She glances at us with complete disinterest before turning back to him.
After a brief conversation, he returns to our group.
“You will serve the drinks first. Once everyone has a flute of champagne, you can start taking the starters out.”
We follow him out of the kitchen, down another sprawling hallway—seriously, how big is this place?
—and through a small, nondescript door that opens into what can only be described as alcohol heaven.
Here, rows and rows of chiller fridges line the walls, all filled with expensive drinks—champagnes, wines, whiskeys, brands I’ve only seen in movies.
The only name I recognize is Moet & Chandon, and I doubt it’s the cheap five-dollar-a-glass knock-off I drank at my high school graduation.
That one tasted so trashy, I knew it was fake the second it hit my tongue.
The butler takes out a pager from somewhere on his person and walks away from us, murmuring into it. Not long after, two dozen uniformed men flood in. Some carry stacks of gleaming silver trays, others have champagne flutes and wine glasses, and one lone person hauls in two duffel bags.
The butler takes the bags, unzips them, and hands them to Fred. “Have your staff change into these,” he says, eyeing our clothes with thinly veiled disdain, which makes me frown.
Our clothes aren’t good enough? We’re all wearing black pants and white shirts—it’s practically a uniform already. But I suppose that’s not sufficient for Senator DeMarco and his fancy guests.
Fred hands one bag to me and another to one of the guys. Inside mine are neatly folded skirts and shirts. I glance at the other girls, Cora, Paige, and Anna, lifting the bag. “This is ours.”
The butler assigns one of the newcomers to escort us, and he leads us to a powder room where we can transform ourselves into acceptable help.
I’ll admit, the uniform is pretty sleek and surprisingly well-made. A pencil skirt that fits like it was tailored for me—is this why Fred was asking for my measurements?—a crisp white undershirt, a cute black bow tie, and a deep green vest that reminds me of…
Romero.
His eyes were exactly this shade of green. Deep, intense, the kind of color that makes you forget how to breathe. I run my hand over the vest, and suddenly I’m right back in the police station, watching him flash that heart-melting smile.
I check myself out in the mirror. I look professional. Polished. So do the other girls. My gaze drops again to my vest, and I run a hand over it once more.
I wonder what Romero is doing right now.
Probably not thinking about some random woman he helped out pro bono at a police station.
Why would he? I’m nobody special. I shake my head, trying to dislodge thoughts of him, but the bastard has been tenacious.
He refuses to leave my mind. The past few days I’ve been tempted more than once to use that business card and call him under the guise of thanking him for his help.
Just to hear his voice one last time… and to see if he remembers me.
I shake my head again and look away from the mirror. Enough, Leni. Focus on the job. “Ready?” I ask the girls, and they nod.
We carefully fold the clothes we took off into the duffel bag, and I push it under the sink to grab later when it’s time to change back.
When we return to the drinks room, the guys are already there, helping the butler’s staff pour champagne into flutes. The girls and I step forward and arrange the glasses carefully onto the trays.
Once two dozen trays are filled up, we each lift one and file out of the room. The butler leads us down the hallway again, and we emerge in the middle of a large foyer dominated by a huge gold chandelier cascading from the ceiling like something out of a movie.
Don’t drop the tray. Don’t drop the tray. The mantra plays on repeat in my head as we walk. I can’t afford to make any mistakes tonight—accidental or otherwise. Not after Fred’s warning and the butler’s threats.
The butler stops in front of two imposing double doors and pushes them open. My lips part involuntarily at the sheer opulence of the ballroom. If the kitchen could fit three of my apartments, this place could easily swallow three kitchens.
It’s that huge.
A duo of musicians performs on stage, their violin and piano creating melodies so beautiful they almost bring me to tears.
Guests in glittering gowns and designer suits float through the space, chatting and laughing in that demure way rich people do, as if the jaw-dropping chandeliers aren’t even worth noticing.
There must be over two dozen of them. Just one of those monstrosities could set me up for life.
I draw a steady breath and follow the other servers in. The moment the butler claps, we disperse. I move quietly through the crowd, tray lifted high, doing my best to be invisible. Very quickly, my tray empties, and I slip out of the ballroom to refill it.
Back in the drinks room, another filled tray is already waiting, so I drop the empty one and pick up the full one, then head out again. By the third run, my body moves on autopilot—until I hear a laugh.
It’s crazy. I’ve never even heard Romero laugh, but somehow, that deep, low sound makes me think of him instantly. Goosebumps erupt all over my body, making my spine tingle as I search the crowd for him while still serving drinks.
Then I see him.
And almost immediately, he glances my way and our gazes collide.
Holy hell, he’s insanely hot. Did I actually think this god was into me? The smile on his face slowly fades as he takes me in, probably wondering what the hell I’m doing here in a server’s uniform.
I don’t even have time to be embarrassed about how he’s seeing me before a wall of flesh slams into me—one of the guests had suddenly stepped backward just as I moved forward.
Time slows to a crawl as I watch my tray flip in my direction, champagne arching through the air like liquid gold about to destroy everything.
No, no, no, NO.
Horror freezes my blood as the flutes tip towards my shirt, but my body moves on instinct. I wrap both hands around the tray, fighting gravity and momentum, making damn sure not to let a single glass hit the floor and shatter.
I succeed. Every flute stays on the tray, even as champagne soaks through my vest and shirt, the cold liquid shocking against my skin.
But when I look up, searching for approval, for any sign that saving the glasses matters, one glance at the butler’s expression tells me he’s not impressed by this feat of coordination at all.
Fuck.