Page 11 of Bound By Them
I blink back my tears and hurry from Dmitri’s room.
Gage kindly doesn’t try to talk to me when I pass him to leave Dmitri’s house. His sympathetic look is nearly my undoing. I don’t want to cry. Not here. Not until I’m completely alone.
Except…alone isn’t what I really want.
I could use a hug.
Instead, I spend the rest of the day at Isabelle’s Creamery, soothing myself with spreadsheets and payroll forms. The numbers keep me grounded. They remind me that even the biggest, worst problems will have solutions if I’m patient enough.
In fact, I almost reach a point where I’m feeling okay…until I get a phone call from my mother. I of course let the call go to voicemail, because that’s what a girl does when her mom is on the warpath.
Only when I’m home do I listen to her message.
“Come over for a chat with your father and me. Dmitri’s coming, too.”
I’d rather suck Satan’s balls, but I get ready to leave again.
Edmund
Hours later, I’m sitting in the private dining room at Finch and Fox, conferring with the manager. It’s eleven o’clock, the kitchen is closed, and now all the Finch offers is drinks. Strains of conversation and faint music reach us from the main dining room.
The manager, Gary, eyes me warily.
“Your numbers are down.” I point to the notes in my phone. “Explain.”
“Yes, sir.” A bead of sweat dots Gary’s upper lip. He takes a large, gulping sip from his water glass.
I wait. I’m not going to ask again. Troy watches, stoic. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. Every shard of my attention is fixed on the manager.
“We lost two of our best bartenders.”
“Lost?” I steeple my fingers next to my untouched glass of scotch. “Lost, how? You’ll need to be more specific.”
“They quit two weeks ago. We’ve been scrambling to fill their positions, but as you know, skilled bartenders like them are difficult to find.”
“Poach new ones from one of Aseyev’s bars.”
Gary pales. “That’s, uh…that’s where ours went.”
My phone buzzes again. Fucking hell, if my father would stop trying to micromanage me for two fucking seconds, I might be able to do the jobs he wants me to do.
I narrow my gaze on Gary again. “Losing two bartenders two weeks ago can’t be the reason behind your dwindling profits over the past three months.”
His mouth opens and closes. No excuses. Nothing. How incompetent is this guy?
I have things to do, better things than babysitting Gary. “I want to see everything—all your numbers, what you’re buying, what you’re selling, who you’re paying and how much. I want it all sent to our accountant. Tonight.”
“Tonight? But, sir, it’s nearly midnight?—”
“And you want to keep your job into tomorrow, don’t you? I don’t want to fire you.” I take a measured breath. “I don’t want to close this restaurant. It has so much potential. But if you can’t pull your thumbs from your ass and act like a real manager, I’ll drop the axe. We don’t run businesses in the red. Fix your shit.”
“Yes, sir. I will, sir.” He takes another shaky sip of water.
My phone buzzes a third time. Fuck’s sake.
I drain my glass of scotch and stand, then leave the room. A server approaches, her tray of drinks balanced on one hand. “Did you get everything you need, Mr. Layton?”
I struggle to remember her name. “Annie. Yes, thank you.”
