“Jose, please,” I beg. “Men like them don’t like hearing the word ‘no.’”
“Just ask,” he snaps. “I’ve got three other orders to fill.”
Gritting my teeth, I turn, ready to go back into the lion’s den to ask them a question I already know the answer to, when Sara almost runs right into me.
“Whoa!” I exclaim.
“Sorry,” she says. “Sorry. Listen, Emily, why don’t you let me take that table?”
“Really?” I ask, relief surging through me.
I do feel a little bad palming the table off on her. But I’m just so tired and my spine feels like it’s on fire.
“Sure thing.” She smiles brightly. I just want to hug her. “You hide out here for a bit and I’ll go handle the table. I’ll ask them about the pork ribs.”
I sag in thanks as Sara disappears back into the restaurant. Turning, I take a seat on one of the little stools in the hallway that the staff uses to steal a quick break from time to time.
My legs cry with relief.
But I haven’t even been sitting five minutes before Sara returns with a grim look on her face.
“Oh, God, what happened?”
“I’m sorry, Em,” Sara sighs. “They want you.”
“What?”
“They told me… um… They’re horrible,” she admits. “I tried to tell them that you’d clocked out for the night but—”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I can do it. Thanks anyway.”
“And Jose… they want steaks,” she calls over to him.
I glare at him. “Told you.”
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fine, I’ll send Larry out to buy a few steaks. They’ll have to wait.”
I know that means I’ll have to deal with them for longer.
This is so not my night. Sara gives me a reassuring look and pats me on the shoulder as I move back into the dining area.
The moment I appear, a round of hooting and wolf whistles rise up from table three. I grit my teeth and approach them.
“We’ll get your steaks,” I say, brusquer than I should be with any customer. “But it might take a little longer than usual.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” the man with the eagle tattoo remarks. “We have you here to keep us entertained.”
“What’s your name?” the man closest to me asks. He’s got bloodshot eyes and a nose so sharp it looks cartoonish.
“Emily.” Even after three months of my new identity, it still sounds clunky coming out of my mouth.
“You don’t look like an Emily.”
I just shrug. What am I supposed to say?
Good call—you got me! I’m actually Esmeralda Kovalyov, neé Moreno, daughter of one of Mexico’s most powerful cartel bosses and the estranged wife of the don of the Kovalyov Bratva. But really, the pleasure is all mine.
As fun as it would be to see these assholes shit themselves, I can’t imagine that ending well for me.