Chapter 18 Table Seven #2
Victoria’s face changed. She hated that word. Not because Sophia used it. Because it worked.
“Fine,” Victoria said. “But I am watching.”
“I know.”
Antonia came over before Sophia had to call.
“Wine?”
Sophia nodded. “He asked for Chianti that doesn’t taste like we chose it because the label looked Italian.”
Gia, who had appeared with a bread basket, whispered, “I hate him with depth.”
Antonia didn’t smile.
“Bring the Castellani,” she said. “Enough to answer him. Not so expensive he thinks we are begging.”
Brett, still at the bar, looked up from his phone. “Smart choice.”
Antonia gave him a look. He looked back down. Sophia nodded and retrieved the bottle. At the pass, she placed the order. Vinny was there. Of course he was. He looked at the ticket, then at her.
“Table seven?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened. Sophia saw the towel tucked into his apron. She saw the edge of his notebook on the shelf behind him. On the open page, written in dark pen:
Stay in kitchen unless asked.
He had underlined it. Once. Maybe twice. Her heart squeezed.
“Vinny.”
“I know.”
“He is asking questions. That is all.”
“He spoke to you.”
“Yes. That is how ordering works.”
His mouth didn’t move. Not a smile or yet.
Sophia lowered her voice. “I need you to let me do this.”
His eyes met hers. She saw it. The fight inside him. The love he hadn’t said. The anger he didn’t have anywhere to put. The way his hands wanted to become action because standing still felt useless. Then he looked at the note.
Stay in kitchen unless asked.
“I will,” he said.
The words sounded hard. But they came. Sophia nodded.
“Thank you.”
His expression softened at that.
Then Antonia called, “Vinny.”
He turned back to the line. Sophia returned with the wine. Francois watched her present the bottle. She was deliberate. Not fancy. Correct enough. He tasted. Paused.
“Better than the label,” he said.
Sophia couldn’t tell if that was praise. She decided it was close enough.
“I’m glad.”
He looked up at her. “Don’t be glad yet. I have only tasted the wine.”
Sophia’s face warmed.
“Of course.”
She stepped away before her expression could change too much. The bruschetta went out clean. Francois ate one piece. Then another. Sophia passed his table with water and saw him looking at the toast instead of the room. That meant something, maybe.
When she came back to check, he wiped his fingers and said, “The bread is properly grilled.”
Sophia waited for the insult. None came.
“The tomatoes are better than they should be this time of year,” he added.
“That will make Antonia happy.”
His gaze lifted. “You tell the chef what makes her happy?”
Sophia felt the trap and didn’t know what kind it was.
“I tell her when guests respond well to her food.”
“And when they don’t?”
“Yes.”
“Brave.”
“Necessary.”
Another pause. Francois looked at her more directly.
“You are young.”
Sophia held her order pad at her side.
“Yes.”
“How long have you been serving?”
“At Bella Luna? Since orientation before opening.”
“It wasn’t the question.”
Her stomach tightened.
“A little under a year in restaurant service,” she said. “Longer in customer service generally.”
“Generally.” He said the word like it had less weight than she wanted it to.
Sophia breathed first.
“Yes.”
Francois leaned back. “And do you enjoy being part of a restaurant that is becoming a story?”
There was no right answer. If she said yes, she sounded naive. If she said no, she sounded ungrateful. If she stumbled, he would hear it.
“I enjoy being part of a restaurant that takes care of people,” she said.
That felt true. Simple. His face did something strange. Not soft. Less sharp, maybe.
“That is a better answer than the question deserved,” he said.
Sophia stared.
Then remembered herself. “Thank you.”
His eyes dropped back to his plate. “You may clear this.”
You may. Sophia picked up the plate. Her hands were still steady, mostly. At the service station, Gia appeared beside her.
“Do we like him or hate him?”
Sophia set down the plate. “Both?”
“Terrible.”
“Yes.”
Victoria approached from the host stand. “What did he say now?”
Sophia shook her head. “He asked how long I have been serving.”
Victoria’s face hardened.
“It is a normal question,” Sophia said.
“It is never normal when people ask it like that.”
Sophia didn’t argue. Because Victoria wasn’t entirely wrong.
Antonia came from the dining room side, eyes on table seven. “How is he responding?”
“To the food? Well, I think.”
“You think?”
“He said the bread was properly grilled and the tomatoes were better than they should be.”
Gia said, “That is the most haunted compliment I have ever heard.”
Antonia looked relieved anyway. Sophia noticed.
That scared her more. If Antonia cared that much, this mattered.
The cavatelli went out next. Vinny plated it, not Antonia.
He brought the pasta himself. Sophia watched from the pass as he set the bowl on the tray.
Brown butter shining lightly. Mushrooms tucked between cavatelli.
Herbs. Lemon. Shaved cheese. Beautiful. His hands were steady.
When he looked up, his eyes went to Sophia.
“For table seven,” he said.
Normal words. Tight voice. Sophia nodded and lifted the tray.
“I’ve got it.”
He didn’t say be measured. Better. He didn’t say I can bring it. Better. He didn’t say anything. Best. Sophia carried the cavatelli to table seven. Francois looked at the bowl before he looked at her.
“Cavatelli with brown butter, lemon, herbs, and roasted mushrooms,” she said.
She set it down slowly. He looked at the bowl for several seconds.
Too long. Then he picked up his fork. Sophia knew she should leave.
She did, mostly. She stepped away to check table nine, refill waters, bring an extra spoon to table three.
Her body worked. Her mind stayed at table seven.
When she returned, Francois had eaten three bites.
That seemed clear, maybe. He looked up before she spoke.
“The pasta has improved since someone first learned the shape,” he said.
Sophia’s heart jumped. He knew? No. Not knew. A comment. A critic comment.
“The kitchen has worked hard on it,” Sophia said.
“Hard work isn’t always interesting.”
Sophia’s face stayed calm.
“But this is,” he added.
Sophia’s chest loosened before she could stop it. It wasn’t warm praise, but it was praise enough to take back to the kitchen. Sophia felt her chest loosen.
“I’ll tell the kitchen.”
“Yes,” Francois said. “Tell them not to bury the lemon next time. It is almost too polite.”
Sophia almost smiled, almost.
“I will.”
When she told Vinny, his face changed so fast it hurt to watch.
“He said interesting?”
“Yes.”
“And the lemon?”
“Almost too polite.”
Vinny looked at Antonia.
Antonia’s mouth twitched. “He is right.”
Vinny exhaled like he had been holding his breath for ten minutes. Maybe he had. Sophia smiled at him. Then a sharp voice from table seven cut across the dining room.
“Miss Sophia.”
Not loud. Loud enough. Sophia turned. Every nerve in Vinny’s body seemed to turn with her. She looked back once. Stay in kitchen, she mouthed. Or maybe she only thought it. Vinny’s eyes flashed. But he stayed. Sophia walked to table seven.
“Yes?”
Francois tapped his wine glass once. “You didn’t check whether I needed another pour.”
Sophia glanced at the glass. It was low. Not empty. Her mistake. Simple. Still hers.
“You’re right,” she said. “I apologize. Would you like another?”
His eyes moved over her face.
“You apologize quickly.”
“I missed it.”
“Yes. You did.”
Heat moved up Sophia’s neck. She kept her shoulders straight.
“I’ll bring the bottle.”
“You should have brought it already.”
Sharper. Public enough that table six glanced over. Sophia felt the room noticing. Not all of it, enough.
“I’ll bring it now,” she said.
She walked away. Not too fast. The back of her neck burned. At the service station, Victoria was already reaching for the bottle.
Sophia put a hand out. “I’ve got it.”
“Sophia.”
“I’ve got it.”
Victoria stopped.
Antonia stepped closer. “Do you want me to go over?”
“No.”
“Sophia.”
“No,” Sophia said, quieter. “Please. If you go over because he corrected me, it looks like I can’t take a correction.”
Antonia’s face softened and tightened at the same time.
“He is needling you.”
“I know.”
“Knowing doesn’t mean you have to stand there alone.”
“I am not alone,” Sophia said. “I am working.”
Victoria’s eyes flashed. Gia looked down at the bar towel in her hands, jaw tight for once with no joke ready. Sophia lifted the wine bottle.
“I need to handle the table.”
Antonia held her gaze. Then nodded once.
“Go.”
Sophia went. She poured the wine slowly. Francois watched.
“Thank you,” he said.
Polite now. That made it worse.
“You’re welcome.”
As she turned, he added, “Precision matters most when the room is watching.”
Sophia stopped. For half a second. Then she continued walking.
She gave no response, which was probably better.
Her hands weren’t shaking yet. In the kitchen, Vinny had both palms flat on the counter.
Antonia stood beside him. Not touching. Close enough to stop him if she had to.
Sophia saw it when she passed the kitchen door.
His eyes found hers. She gave him one short nod.
I am handling it. He swallowed. Then nodded back.
But his hands stayed flat. White at the knuckles.
Service continued. Francois made it harder because he kept shifting.
One minute he needled her. The next, he asked a real question or noticed something true about the food.
If he had been awful every second, it might have been easier.
He asked real food questions. He noticed details. He praised the pasta in his own cold way. He asked whether Antonia had trained in Italy or learned through family. When Sophia told him family, he said, “That can be better. If discipline follows memory.”