Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Sienna
I won’t accept responsibility for this one. Maybe, earlier, I could’ve avoided that kid’s toy on the floor. And I possibly could’ve even dodged Nico’s friend, or whoever he is. But this is not my fault.
My head was still reeling from what had just occurred. I never wanted to work for the mob, not after what happened to my mother– not ever. But then Gianna played that slick move. I can’t turn down seven thousand dollars! I don’t have that luxury. But it’s mob money.
I wince as I pick up a large piece of glass, a customer walking by like I’m not even here. Can I justify mob money for rent? Or would I rather be homeless?
“Let me do that.”
I look up at his deep, confident voice. Nico kneels down, seeming agile, strong.
If I were to sketch him now, I’d focus on the hard edges, his square jawline, his sharp eyes. He looks mad, but he’s softening himself for me. Could he tell how much I hate the mob?
“It’s fine.”
“You can get a dustpan and sweep the smaller pieces.”
“I’ll probably need to vacuum, too.”
He smiles tightly. “Sounds like a plan.”
I step into the back room, grabbing everything I need. There’s a picture on the wall: the owner, a wiry widow, riding a bull as the sunset bleeds over the hills toward the camera. It’s gorgeous. But I’m getting distracted. Likely I see myself in that wild woman, or who I wish I could be.
When I return, Nico has gathered all the large bits of glass on the tray. He carries it to the trash. The table of Russians all watch us, their eyes unreadable. Nico stands beside me like some sort of bodyguard, his hands crossed over his middle. For once, it’s nice to have somebody looking out for me.
As I clean up the smaller bits – wincing at the sound of the vacuum and doing that part quickly – I try to ignore the electric tension. Nico glances at me every so often, his eyes hard. It’s like he’s silently saying, I’m here for you.
It’s an undercurrent, a vibe beneath a vibe, something that an artist might dream up or might truly be happening. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me. He’s a mob monster. A stray bullet. He’d be the end of my happiness. He represents all the darker shades of my life.
“Please, let me help,” a man says in a Russian accent, approaching me as I carry the vacuum back. It’s the same man who knocked over my tray, with a broken nose, a scar on his forehead. A thin smile in place.
Nico strides into his path. “You forget yourself.”
A moment later, Viktor Barinov stands and strides toward us. The restaurant goes quiet, the Pat Green record seeming louder in the silence. Viktor stands beside his man.
“Explain yourself, Sergei,” he grunts.
“I was going to help, boss.”
“The job is already done,” Viktor snaps. “Nico, you must understand, some of my men are morons. Please, forgive him.”
Viktor is a tall, thin man. If I were to draw him, he would look like an eagle. His age adds to the look, his facial structure pressing through his tired face like a faint pencil sketch through deep charcoal.
Nico’s body is as tight as a bow. “I understand, Viktor. Sergei wanted to seem funny, so he asked if we needed help when we were clearly already done. Now, he should head back to his table.” Nico’s voice grows volcanic.
I’ve sometimes dreamed of someone protecting me, sticking up for me, for a change. So when the flurrying feeling touches me, the undeniable appreciation, I try not to freak.
“He’s right,” Viktor says coldly. “Back to the table.”
“But,” Sergei protests.
“But?” Nico growls, curling his hand into a fist, his eyes hard.
I want to reach out, tell him he doesn’t need to do this for me. But I sense he can’t be stopped. I figure he’s doing this for himself somehow, maybe to justify who he is, what he is.
He’s a puzzle. I want to figure him out. Or waste time trying.
But this standoff proves it. What if one of them has a gun, starts shooting, and then just like Mom—I can’t think about that.
“ Sergei ,” Viktor says in an ice-cold tone.
“But… nothing,” Sergei grits out, shuffling back to the table.
“Who is your friend?” Viktor asks casually, but I feel the question is anything but innocent. “Can I say hello? I don’t bite.”
Nico moves aside slightly but stays close enough so that he’s shielding me with his body. I like it a little too much, but it’s gone far enough. I walk around Nico. “We spoke before, Mr. Barinov. You asked me how long I’ve worked here.”
“Ah, yes, hello…” He looks down at my name tag, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than it needs to on my chest. “Sienna. That’s right. You’ve worked here a week.”
“Yes,” I say.
“When was the last time you visited the Vine, Nico?” Nico just stares at him. From this angle, I can see his blue eyes are practically glowing with rage. When Nico doesn’t answer, Viktor goes on, “I’m curious. How long has it taken Sienna here to make such a dazzling impression?”
“We met tonight,” Nico growls. “She’s here to do her job, not to be subjected to interrogations by you. You’re drunk. And you’ve overstepped.”
“I’m Russian, Mr. Moretti. Please don’t talk to me about drunk . But yes, I will leave you. I apologize, once again, for Sergei’s behavior. Oh, and Anya sends her love.”
“Okay.”
Viktor tears his eyes away from Nico to look at me. “Anya is my daughter, my jewel, my princess. She has been quite smitten with this one for a number of years.” Viktor laughs, waggling his finger at Nico. “But he has been as stubborn as a big American mule.”
He laughs, returning to his table. I’m shaking as I carry the vacuum and the brush into the back room. I don’t want to be overdramatic, but that was terrifying. It wasn’t anything that was said. It was the tightness in the air.
Rachael rushes over, positioning herself in the doorway of the supply closet. "Oh, my gawd. What was that about?"
"I don't know. Nico stood up for me, I guess, and then it was... It wasn't anything that was said." I inhale deeply, close my eyes momentarily, then reopen them. "I'm going to forget about that incident entirely. Just focus on work. That's all I want to think about. Compartmentalize everything else."
"You're not going nutty on me, are you, hon?"
"I'm perfectly fine."
"You're my star waitress tonight."
"Even after all those blunders?"
She envelops me with her arm. “It’s all thanks to your kick-ass attitude."
"Thanks, Rachael."
I return to the main floor of the restaurant, realizing the folly in hasty judgments. Initially, I thought her insufferable. Yet her words are comforting.
For fifteen minutes, I work diligently, acutely aware of the Russians' scrutiny and Nico's gaze as well. Nico ignites something within me—a spark I might acknowledge in another existence, not this one, not in a reality where the mob ended my mother's life.
They murdered her. Crushed her like an insignificant ant. They killed her as if she were inconsequential, not the woman who single-handedly raised a daughter after her father abandoned them. She was an angel. Now, she's gone forever.
Eventually, the Russians leave. Nico and his companions linger. I hate the sensation of his watchful eyes... despise it precisely because it captivates me so entirely. Try making sense of that contradiction.
Gianna gestures toward me. "Could you fetch me another coffee, dear?"
"Certainly," I reply, jotting it down. "Anything else?"
"Nico was mentioning something," Gianna says.
I glance at Nico, whose cheeks are flushed crimson. I've always been entranced by that color, its subtle variations. Crimson, carmine, alizarin. Or perhaps it's merely the ambient lighting. "My mother has an unfortunate tendency to speak far too freely," he says.
I smile genuinely. I nearly say, I like seeing you embarrassed . But I refrain. I simply wait expectantly.
"If you'd like transportation, we can provide it," Nico offers. "You might prefer not to go home unaccompanied this evening."
"I'm perfectly capable," I respond.
"It's absolutely no imposition, dear," Gianna insists.
"And I meant precisely what I said. I'm entirely self-sufficient."
I've been alone for four years. I don’t need special considerations now.
I'll accept their payment for my artistic services, just this one commission. That sum will suffice to potentially seek alternative employment or dedicate myself exclusively to my art for several months. Is that a sustainable lifestyle? I'm not sure. But it sounds appealing.
"Just the coffee, then, thank you," Gianna concedes.
That's what needs my concentration. One assignment with the Morettis, seven thousand dollars, and subsequently, a choice. Remain here, or immerse myself in my artistic pursuits temporarily? But what if she recommends me to a friend? Or requests additional pieces? Or commissions one for herself?
I'm getting ahead of myself, admittedly, but should that scenario present itself, I'll decline it firmly. Just one job. This singular occasion. Mom would understand my reasoning.
When I deliver her coffee, Gianna blows across its surface. For a disorienting moment, she embodies Mom's likeness, the identical contour of her lips, the same distinctive character. Gianna smiles warmly. "Everything okay?"
I clear my throat. "Yes, thank you. Enjoy your coffee."
Nico's gaze follows my every move as I walk away. I love it. I loathe it. I simultaneously wish it would end and go on forever.