In which everyone who’s worked as a server will totally relate.
Lucya…
“Lucya, you have tables six and seven!”
Groaning internally, I turned, pasting a bright smile on my face. “What happened to ‘It’s time for your break, go put your feet up?’” I hiss to Arina, who’s giving me the same plastic grin.
“The entire head council of the Ghazaryan Bratva just showed up, that’s what happened,” she said, that unnerving social smile still in place. “Now, get your ass out there and be the adorable little thing they’re expecting because I want to live long enough to go on my date tonight.”
“Really? I get the Ghazaryan Bratva and you get Mikhail, the insanely hot bartender?” I say, “This is not a fair trade!”
She shoves me forward with a hand between my shoulder blades and I stumble slightly as I enter the dining room at Dobro pozhalovat’ domoy, which means ‘Welcome Home.’ Every Russian expatriate in Boston finds their way here soon enough. The food, the deep red leather booths, and the gold gilt ceiling bring a sense of Mother Russia, and even the most hardened of souls leave with a sense that all is right in the world.
Unfortunately, the Albanians currently clogging up my tables is not here to enjoy our flaky pelmeni or immerse themselves in our spectacular vodka-tasting menu. They’re here to show off their expensive suits that somehow look cheap, smoke horrible cigars against the restaurant’s rules, and make comments about my ass, or lack thereof.
These are not subtle men.
Actually, they’re complete bastards.
“Dobro pozhalovat’, welcome, gentlemen.” My insincere social smile is pinned firmly on my face as they all look up. “Can I start you off with some pirozhki or a tray of pickled vegetables?”
“I think it’s time for you to dump this shit job and sit on my lap, goxha zuskë.” The Head Douchebag in Charge adjusts his pathetic erection in his pants. It is not subtle.
I don’t know much Albanian, but I’m pretty sure he just called me something nasty.
“How about drinks?” I carry on, my smile a bit tighter.
There’s more insulting commentary, and finally, the smirking idiots deign to order their meals. The one closest to me reaches out his filthy grabby hand and I swing my hips to the left, avoiding him. It’s a move I’ve used a hundred times, though usually in the club portion of Vozvrashchaysya Domoy when I pick up shifts as a bar back.
The money our mother sends us every month doesn’t stretch as far as it used to, and Inessa and I don’t feel like we can ask for more. She’s risking Uncle Rurik’s wrath by keeping us in Boston as it is. We didn’t go to our Aunt Polina’s that night when Mat’ spirited us away from our home. Instead, we were put on a jet and sent here.
The lack of money is the reason I’m working double shifts in this place instead of going to school. When Mother sent us to Boston, the plan was to send both of us to college. But as the money dwindled, Inessa insisted that it made sense for her to finish her degree and then, I can go.
After putting in the Albanian’s order, I linger by the kitchen, knowing it’s cowardly but not willing to face them again without a tray of very hot food between us.
Inessa… I’ve tried several times to point out that if we move to a less expensive apartment, sell the car, and depend on mass transit, there would be enough money to cover tuition for us both. She’d been shocked, asking me if I knew how dangerous this city was, insisting that my safety was more important than saving money.
I don’t have the nerve to remind her that she’s the only one who uses the car, even though we live ten minutes from campus and my bus to work takes at least half an hour.
Inessa and I only have each other to depend on – she reminds me of this often enough – but she’s right. The friends I’ve made here would never believe what our life was like in Russia, much less understand it.
“Girl! Come here.”
My mouth tightens as one of the idiots shouts at me from across the dining room, making the other diners turn toward the noise.
I don’t know which Ghazaryan brother this is, just that they are all assholes. I know Gregor Sidorov, the owner of Dobro pozhalovat’ domoy, has given them several warnings. Apparently, barring them entrance is past his comfort level, not that I can blame him.
“Here’s your drinks, gentlemen.” I slightly emphasize ‘gentlemen’ knowing that it won’t do a thing to improve their manners.
It doesn’t.
This time Ghazaryan gets an arm around me before I can twist loose, dragging me down on his lap. He stinks of horrible, hand-rolled cigarettes and garlic. I should be brave, slap him and twist free, refusing to serve them. Instead, I freeze, shoulders hunched when he pushes his sweaty face against mine.
“This is where you belong, goxha zuskë,” he says, laughing when I cringe away from him.
“Fisnik Ghazaryan, you have a guest waiting for you in the club.”
It’s Gregor’s son Boris, his eyes are furious but his smile is polite as he helps me off the slimy bastard’s lap.
“Fine. We’ll eat in there,” Fisnik rises, hitching up his trousers and jabbing a finger at me. “But I want her to serve us.”
“There are designated servers in the club,” Boris says, “they’ll be happy to-”
Fisnik chuckles, patting his cheek hard enough to be considered a slap. “I think your papa will tell you to keep me happy, little Siderov.”
Boris’ jaw tightens, but he nods briefly as the smirking Albanians file out of the room.
“Mne zhal’, I’m sorry Lucya,” he says. “Are you all right?”
“Spasibo, thank you for stepping in. I’m surprised your father still allows them entrance.”
“Not for much longer,” he says darkly, opening the door to the kitchen for me. “I’ll send Tomas out to help you with their meal.”
Tomas is the biggest sous chef in the kitchen and very handy with a knife. “Thank you again,” I sigh. “Hopefully, they’ll get bored and head back out to wreak havoc and sow discord on the streets of Boston.”
“Anywhere but here,” he agrees.
The meals Ghazaryan and his slimy henchmen ordered come up distressingly fast, and Tomas helps me load the two trays, holding one above his head. “Why don’t you organize the dishes on the tray stand and I’ll take the plates over to their table.”
This isn’t the first time Boris has had to send a burly sous chef out with a waitress, but I feel guilty that he disrupted the kitchen for me.
I should be better at handling idiots like these. I froze up like a coward when Ghazaryan grabbed me. Arina never lets handsy diners get this far. She would have been off that ape’s lap and making them all laugh by juggling the vodka glasses, or something. I have to be tougher than this.
The nightclub side is busy for a Thursday night, house music pulsing through the speakers, and the bar is three-deep in people trying to grab a drink. The Albanians are holding court in the VIP section, though I doubt those cheap bastards can afford the higher club membership. Whoever they’re meeting must have the VIP platinum card.
Tomas groans slightly as we head up the steep steps to the lounge. It’s designed for a view of the entire club, with comfortable leather furniture and showy crystal chandeliers that shouldn’t look right but do. There’s a private bar, and the man there nods to me. “I’ll set up a couple of stands for you.”
“Spasibo, thank you,” I say, looking around. The lounge is empty, aside from us and the five Albanians already leering at me.
“Girl!” Fisnik shouts. “Move your ass, we’re hungry.”
“Puta polla, fucking dick,” Tomas mutters.
“You have no idea,” I agree.
Pasting on a frozen smile as we approach the table, I notice one of the seats is empty, the glass in front of it half-empty. “Will your guest be ordering from the kitchen?”
“He won’t be staying,” Fisnik says, “you just focus on my needs.” His creepy sidekicks laugh like he’s said the most hilarious thing. One of them kicks out at Tomas when he tries to put their plate down.
“Get your fucking hands off my food!”
“Only the girl can serve us,” Fisnik sneers. “Get your ass back to the kitchen.”
Tomas’ grip on the next plate is tightening and I groan silently. If he dumps it over that slimebag, they’ll probably shoot him.
“Hey Tomas, I’ve got it,” I whisper, “don’t worry. The bartender’s here in case things get worse.”
“Define worse,” he hissed, glaring at the Albanians. Grudgingly leaving me, he heads back down the stairs toward the kitchen.
Two more plates to put down and the tray of cold smoked salmon and marinated mushrooms. Ask them if they need another drink. That’s all.
Like a drunken, horny barnacle, Fisnik’s arm goes around my waist as I put the last dish down. “Now, you’ll feed me.” He opens his mouth wide, wiggling his eyebrows and his breath reeked of garlic, tobacco, and unwashed teeth makes me gag.
“Are we doing this or are you too busy fucking with the waitstaff?”
I know that voice. Deep enough to vibrate in your bones, raspy with the rough undertone of a Russian accent.
Struggling off Fisnik’s lap, I turn around.
He’s a giant. Tall and broad and built like a mountain. Glacier blue eyes roam over my face for a moment before returning indifferently to the Albanians.
Checking his watch, Alexi Turgenev glares impatiently. “You have three minutes to meet me outdoors or I’ll be taking my product to the Baranauskas family.”
My mouth opens. “Al…” He’s already walking away.
