Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Sienna
I pull out my notebook and pencil, quickly sharpening it over the sink. I'm in the restroom, briefly pausing after an hour on my feet. My sketchbook contains a portrait of a man's face against a forest backdrop, though his features remain indistinct. I swiftly define his eyebrows and contour his mouth.
I'm transforming him into the tall, suited gentleman, his black hair flecked with silver—depicted by erasing minute slivers from the charcoal darkness—his effortless smirk, our verbal sparring, his penetrating gaze...
A knock interrupts me. Duty calls. His visage emerges like a shadow through the more defined lines. My phone vibrates.
Hastily tucking my notebook away, I call, "Just a minute."
I pull my phone from my pocket. Another message from my landlord. Rent is due in a week, while my first paycheck from this place arrives in four days. I need to hustle. I’m one late payment away from an eviction notice. Hell, I almost lost all my paintings because I can’t even afford my storage unit.
My apartment is overflowing with paintings. Moving them last night from my storage unit was a nightmare, but losing all my work would have been worse. If only my artwork could sustain me financially. But reality demands pragmatism.
"Sorry, hon," Rachael says as I emerge. "I'm dying out there. Another family just arrived."
Rachael is the supervisor. She stares expectantly at me as if I’m getting on her last nerve. She caught me sketching last night. Now I’ve done it again. I promised myself I wouldn’t do it at work, but after the run-in with the tall man in the suit, I got that fuzzy, excited feeling. That ‘let’s do art!’ feeling… which has lost me jobs in the past.
“I’m right on it.”
I take two steps, then I hear, “You left your… pencil shavings in the sink?”
“Uh, they’re not mine,” I reply.
“I’ll choose to believe that girl, but get your behind out there.”
I get back to work, getting somewhat lost in the mayhem of it. I like to capture moments. The upscale restaurant, a man’s Stetson resting on the stool next to his at the bar, or a mother feeding her child. That’s how I can somehow link this job to art.
The Vine starts to get really busy, every table occupied, empties stacking up. Worse, Rachael just told me the bus boy has got food poisoning, so I’m going to need to help clear the tables. “No problem,” I say, with a big, fake smile.
My stress levels are rising, but I need to be chill. No rent means nowhere to live, nowhere to store my art, nowhere to put as an address for payment if I do score any portrait gigs. I begin with the long table in the corner. A group of men in suits, maybe ex-military, perhaps businessmen. It’s hard to tell. They speak in Russian as I pile up their empty glasses onto a black tray.
Then one of them speaks in gruff English at me. He’s the oldest of the group, with hard features and even harder eyes. “Girl, can I ask you a question?”
Suddenly, everyone goes quiet. There’s a weird response. Power exudes from this man, and he frightens me. “Do you need a drink, sir?”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his steely eyes. “I need an answer to a question, if you would be so kind as to oblige me.”
“Uh, sure.” What choice do I have?
“How long have you been working here?”
My belly drops and my pulse pounds. Is he going to complain about me? What did I even do? “A week.”
“A week,” he repeats, like he doesn’t believe it.
“Yes.”
“Seven days.”
Sweat slides down my neck. “Yes. Do you need anything?”
He stares, seeming angry, but I can’t figure out why. “No,” he says stiffly.
I carry the tray from the table, wondering what the heck that was about. I’ve got enough to worry about. I don’t need strange questions from intimidating men.
“Were you talking to Viktor Barinov?” A voice comes from behind me.
“You almost made me drop my tray! Springing up like a darn bucking bronco.”
I gasp when I realize what I’ve said… to my supervisor. I almost let out a prayer.
“It’s nice to know you’re human,” she says with a chuckle.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
I want to ask her why she’s suddenly being nice to me.
“I should get back to it,” I mutter.
“Wait – hold on a sec. How do you know Viktor Barinov?”
“I thought we were busy.”
“Hey, this is work related. Sorta.” She gets closer.
“I don’t know who he is. He only wanted to know how long I’ve worked here.”
“Huh, I wonder why,” she mumbles to herself,
“Who is he?” I ask.
“You don’t know what kind of restaurant this is, do ya, honey?”
“Maybe not,” I admit.
“Aw, you’re precious. Maybe . No, you’re lost. That man was Viktor Barinov, the leader of the Bratva in this little town, and on the other side, you’ve got Nico Moretti.” She makes air quotes. “He’s a hedge fund manager if you can work that one out.”
“Is he in the mob?”
“Bingo.”
I grind my teeth if frustration and a memory sucker punches me. I’m twelve years old, and Mom is tall, healthy, strong, and smiling as she brushes hair from my face. “Don’t you grind those pearly whites or there will be nothing left but angel dust.” I can hear my laughter in response almost feel the belly cramps from my incessant giggles. That was before they took her from me.
“Is this a mob restaurant？”
Rachael giggles. “Not as such. But we’re friendly to them, and they’re friendly to us. I just thought you should know. Now…”
She makes eyes at the door. Since it’s clear I’m not connected to them, she seems less interested in me now. I suppose I’m not worth her respect since I’m not a friend of the oh-so-impressive Barinov's. And who else was it – Nico Moretti, that was it.
I almost turn away, tell her I quit, leave, and never come back. A mob bar . But Mom wouldn’t want me to be homeless. It’s not even the idea of sleeping on the street that terrifies me. It’s knowing I’d lose all my hard work, with no money for a storage unit.
“I’ll get back to work.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
As I cross the restaurant, I hear one of the Russians say, “We can always take him out.”
Sure, he could be talking about arranging a surprise party for someone, but I doubt it. I don’t want to think about it. I just need to get through my shift, then figure out what to do. I could get a new job, but I’m determined to keep this one.
My path on the way back takes me past the tall stylish man’s table. He smirks at me. And you know what? I make eyes back at him, too. I like that glint in his eyes, catching the light just so. I should’ve added that to the sketch.
“Nico,” the man opposite him says.
I stop walking for a moment, before remembering the number one rule to waitressing: don’t stop or somebody will give you something to do. But the shock is severe.
He’s Nico.
Okay, that’s easy, then. I just need to forget we ever spoke. He’s a stranger, so no big deal.
But fate has other ideas. As I walk past his table, I trip on a toy some kid has helpfully left in the aisle. I suppose this is an extra clumsy day for me. I find my footing, but the movement causes my notebook to tumble out of my back pocket.
I quickly turn, look down… at Nico with it in his hands, looking down at his own face.
“Is that… you?” the woman beside him says, a glamorous older woman drenched in jewelry with an intelligent to her eyes.
“Me？” Nico says, chuckling nervously. “I’m sure it’s not.”
“I-I wouldn’t have time to sketch on a busy night like this,” I stutter.
Nico stares down at the sketch, his features staring through the charcoal. “The background is different,” he says. “That’s how you know it’s not me.”
“You know it’s not you because I told you so,” I say. “Please, give it back.”
“Feisty,” the other man mutters.
Nico turns to him with a cold look. “She’s fine. It’s her property.”
“Okay, Prince Charming.” The other man chuckles, pouring himself a whiskey.
“Would you like me to put it on the tray?” Nico asks with a smirk.
He’s got a real handsome, arrogant thing going on, like he’s playing the role of an A-hole just to tease, to bother me, and I like it. It’s fun. I want to banter back with him.
“Or maybe just slip it in your pocket?” he says.
A warmth blossoms across my body. He’s hinting at gliding his hand along my ass. “The tray is fine.”
He reaches up, places the book down.
“That really is fine work, dear,” the woman says. “I’m something of an art connoisseur myself, and that shading was exquisite.”
I don’t know why, but I laugh.
“I wasn’t joking,” she says.
“I just wasn’t expecting a compliment.”
“Don’t laugh when you receive a compliment, dear. It makes people think you don’t deserve it. And you do, Sienna.”
“Uh, thank you.”
“Do you often sketch?”
“Yes. I love the seductive, misleading simplicity of it.”
The woman’s face lights up. “What a wonderful way to describe it.”
“Seductive, misleading,” Nico says. “This is all above my head.” He smiles self-deprecatingly at me. “My mother is the intellectual one. I’m one hundred percent brute.”
“Why can I believe that?” I say, walking away. It was supposed to come out flat. But it sounds flirty. It sounds like I’m challenging him to be bad. To me. For me. With me.
All the way back to the kitchen, I tell myself, my cheeks aren’t red on repeat. I don’t want to flirt with a mafia boss. I don’t need art critiques from his mother, though. That comment about shading really hit a sweet spot for me. I’ve been focusing on that aspect a lot recently.
But no – I can’t think like this.
If I were going to do the right thing and honor my mother, I’d charge out there with a steak knife.
Perhaps all mafia men aren’t the same. Maybe this one is different. But I can’t afford to take that risk.