The waitress dared to ignore the Italian mafia boss — until he ordered, “Bring her to me.”

The metallic clang of dishes hitting the stainless steel counter echoed through the kitchen of Bella Notte, mingling with the sharp commands from Chef Romano and the perpetual hum of the exhaust fans that never quite cleared the air of garlic, tomato, and burnt oil. My feet throbbed in the cheap non-slip shoes I'd bought at a discount store three months ago, the insoles already worn through from double shifts that had become my reality. I could feel every ridge in the rubber mat beneath me as I loaded another tray with plates of osso buco, the rich scent making my empty stomach clench with a hunger I'd learned to ignore.