Page 13 of Sin Bin

“It’ll have to do.” The menu slips from my grasp as he steals it, and I feel like he’s straight-up taken away my lifeline. “Table 21 is allyours.”

I don’t want it to be all mine. Sure, serving tables shouldn’t be all that different from serving high-end celebrities. I’m a people person. They like me; I like them. Not to sound arrogant or anything, but this shouldn’t be a problem—except at the thought of recreating the fiasco with the mayor all over again, the blood immediately seeps frommyface.

“Aren’t servers supposed to have a training period?” I eye the menu Manny clutches in one hand, wondering how desperate I’ll look if I try to takeitback.

As if reading my thoughts, he tucks it under his armpit and clamps down. “Our chef quit today and he took most of the serving staff. I don’t care if you fake your way through the entire night. Get out there and pretend you know what the hell you’re talkingabout.”

His monologue ends in puresilence.

I stare at the menulongingly.

He watches me like he’s expecting me to make a breakforit.

After thirty seconds, I ask, “Where’s Table 21again?”

His eyes squeeze shut. “Lover’sLane.”

Ah.

Moresilence.

I open my mouth. “Which laneisthat?”

In response, all he does is lift his arm and point at the swinging door leading to thediningarea.

I stealthily sneak a peek at a printout of the dining room layout on my way out of the kitchen. Lover’s Lane—to the right and along the back wall of the restaurant. I’vegotthis.

At this time of night, Vittoria is packed with patrons. When my dad first opened the restaurant about twenty years ago, its first rendition was more pizza-joint and less fine-dining atmosphere. But as the years bled into one another, and as his phone calls to me grew more sporadic the busier he became, thanks to the restaurant’s newfound fame, Vittoria slowly climbed theranks.

Now one of Boston’s trendiest restaurants, Vittoria can be found in the historic Italian neighborhood of the North End. The interior is designed with exposed brick walls, wrought iron sconces and chandeliers, and pristine white tablecloths. The menu regularly scores high reviews from top food bloggers, and, from what my dad has told me, it’s not uncommon to see celebrities step through Vittoria’s frontdoors.

Sidling up to the hostess stand, I snag a vase of water and count my way over to Table 21 inLover’sLane.

Eighteen…

Nineteen…

Twenty…

Here we are. I slide my finger into my shirt collar, and subtly straighten my black bow tie. Taking a deep breath, I step up to the tableandgrin.

“Hi there! Welcome toVittoria!”

A blonde-haired woman blinks back at me. “My date is in therestroom.”

Gotta love the people whomustlet everyone know that they aren’t eating alone. Once, I was just like them. Recently, I’ve learned to enjoy my independence. I can eat when I want, where I want, and thank God I no longer have to worry about a man telling me to lay off the second slice ofcheesecake.

My cheesecake, myrules.

My gaze drops to the woman’s dress, which borders on Academy-Award-worthy, it’s so fancy. While my dad’s restaurant is largely upscale, it still doesn’t call for . . . .Well,this.

The woman is encased in cheetah-printsilk.

It’s rather stunning,actually.

I almost want to ask where shepurchasedit.

Her incredibly breathy, high-pitched voice stops me. “Did you hear me? You can come back in fiveminutes.”

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