Page 6 of Deceitful Oath

I grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge and chug it down, popping a mint into my mouth to chase the cigarette stink away.

“I was doing so good, too.”

“Rough day?” Lisa asks, joining me behind the bar. We have five minutes till opening time, and Carlo gets pissed if we’re not behind the counter when he does his final walkthrough.

“It was…weird, for sure,” I tell her, pulling my dress down a little to expose an extra inch of cleavage. As much as I hate putting myself on display behind the bar, tips are tips. And these customers are big tippers.

Carlo thunders into the room, looking for something to yell at us about. I roll my eyes covertly at Lisa, and she gigglesquietly, smacking my butt. We straighten up as he saunters over, appraising “his best girls” as he calls us.

“Hello, Mr. Mancini,” I say sweetly, smiling and making my eyes go wide. Lisa copies me and we wait for Carlo’s motivational phrase of the day. He likes to throw random quotes at us before the start of every shift. They often range from cliché to mind-bogglingly bizarre.

“Girls, do you know what the great Al Capone once said?”

His beady little rat eyes stare us down intently, waiting for a response. I open my mouth to say something semi-snarky, but Lisa steps on my toe and shakes her head.

“He said, and I quote,” Carlo starts, his voice taking on a tone of self-importance, “ ‘You can go a long way with a smile. You can go a lot farther with a smile and a gun’.”

We nod solemnly. I sneak a glance at Lisa and see her trying not to laugh. Carlo Mancini is, by far, the weirdest boss I’ve ever had.

I ended up behind his bar three years ago when I applied for an ad looking for a dishwasher at a nightclub. I’d been on the hunt for a nighttime job that wasn’t shady and paid relatively well. Except when I arrived for my interview, I was told the position was closed, and the only other option was a bartending gig.

Feeling desperate, I begged him to give me a shot—never mind that I had zero bartending experience. Carlo gave me an audition round that same night and I made three hundred dollars in tips. He hired me on the spot.

As Carlo wanders away, Lisa and I relax against the bar, waiting for customers to come in. She grabs a Diet Coke and takes a long sip.

“You’d think with how often he quotes Capone,” I whisper, “that he’s secretly a mafia don or something.”

Lisa chokes so hard on her drink that I have to smack her back. Finally, she manages a deep breath and laughs awkwardly.

“Good one,” she says, still clearing her throat. “Lucky for us, he’s just a bar owner.”

Weird reaction.I shake my head. It wasn’t that funny.

I’m about to ask her why she’s acting so weird when a few regulars waltz in and order a round of cocktails. We fall into a steady rhythm of pouring drinks and chatting with customers, and the night flies by.

It’s after midnight before we finally get a bit of a break. People are buzzed and happy, socializing and dancing. I lean back against the counter, sipping some water, and look around. This definitely isn’t the type of place I’d choose for a night out.

The Velvet Room is a single room—spacious, with a soaring ceiling and walls of windows that are tinted for privacy. Deep blue velvet curtains drape artfully across the windows, the same shade as the round booths. A shiny lacquered dance floor sits in the middle, surrounded by bar tables and tufted seats.

Of course, there are back rooms, too. Small cozy spaces for private parties, dates, and probably shady activities. Thankfully, I never have to serve those rooms, so I turn a blind eye and do my job at the main bar.

Lisa is far more senior than me, so she’s in charge of serving the private rooms. She gets a call on the special tablet linked to them and rolls her eyes at me.

“Three more bottles of Moët,” she scoffs, scrolling through the order. “These people are spending money just to spend money, I swear.”

“At least you get great tips back there?” I offer, giving her an encouraging smile. A man sits down at the bar as Lisa wanders away to find cold bottles of champagne.

“Hey there,” I smile at him. “What can I get ya?”

“Glass of bourbon, beautiful,” he says, looking me up and down. We chat as I pour his drink but I keep my distance. It’s a delicate act, balancing a friendly smile with a cold, hard bitch look.Sometimes, being too friendly gets you in trouble.

And let’s face it, I get in trouble just because I’m alive and breathing. I don’t need to invite any more troubles to come my way. They find me readily enough even when I’m trying to avoid them.

Lisa ducks back into the bar, joining me, and we start slowly tidying up from the earlier rush.

“You never told me what happened to you,” she says, grabbing a stack of towels to fold.

“Right! I completely forgot.”

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