Page 5 of Bleed
“Morning boss man.” He replies, stopping to look over my shoulder at the array of things I’ve already prepared. “Good night last night?”
“Excellent one.”
“Good to hear.” He says with a brotherly clap to my shoulder before going back to his things.
In no time the wait staff, line cooks, and support staff file in, one at a time, all looking tired and like they don’t want to be here. I’ll never understand the mentality of the younger crowd nowadays. They bitch when there’s no work or money to be had, yet they complain about coming to a job where they make bank and can be themselves.
For a tight-assed man, I run a pretty open kitchen because I like to enjoy my work, and I feel my people should too. The sour puss looks on their faces every morning really grinds my gears with how lenient I really am with them. They would never survive in another kitchen.
“Good morning everyone. Let’s be a little chipper today, okay?” I call out to the room that’s louder and busier which each addition that treads in through the saloon doors.
The radio is cranked louder by one of the dishwashers, and the mood brightens up a bit as we all fall into place in our stations, getting ready for the long day ahead of us. The family will be arriving soon for their daily breakfast, and I scoop up a pile of mixed peppers and mushrooms and toss them on the flat top for the line cooks.
“Western omelets, sausage, home fries, and toast. I want at least ten orders up in five.” I say, leaving them to their work, wiping my hands off on the towel on my shoulder.
My staff, once their moving and grinding, work well together, minus the regular cattiness of a group of men together. Sometimes I think they’re worse than women, until I hear the gossip and chatter coming from the front of the house from the gaggle of waitresses. As they turn the chairs over from the tables, and lay out the rolled flatware in place, they talk amongst themselves about last night’s events, picking fun at each other about the amount they drank and the stupidity that ensued in their little group.
A few glances land on me as I cross the dining room and head outside the front doors for a smoke and some fresh morning air. I can feel them piercing into my back as I ignore them, focusing more on keeping myself centered and ready for the day. Besides, I don’t fuck those I work with, it’s bad ju-ju, even if some of them are smoking fucking hot.
The bell above the door chimes out brightly as I step outside, finding Valentino leaning up against the brick façade, his foot up on the wall behind him, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.
“Another nail in our coffins?” I ask, popping a menthol cig in my mouth, lighting it with my favorite Zippo, and enjoying the first taste of the mint and butane.
“Exactly.” He replies with a large cloud of smoke billowing from his mouth and nostrils. “In this life, we gotta choose our own death before someone does it for us.”
“Ain’t that the truth?”
The air has warmed up with the full sunrise, but the breeze still blows. The small amount of leaves that do fall from the trees this time of year have already dropped, and they swirl around our feet like confetti. You can smell the fall in the air, the scent of decay tinging the crisp wind. It’s a sign that the year will be coming to a close soon, and so will another record of mine, the most kills in a calendar year.
In silence we enjoy the peace and quiet, dragging on our smokes and flicking the ashes that blow away before hitting the ground. It’s a nice thing that Valentino breaks when he throws down his smoke, crushes it with his polished shoe, and turns to me.
“They call her the ‘Recluse’.” He says simply, then reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a thickly stuffed envelope of cash. “Everyone else has failed, and Uncle wants it done within the week.”
“As in the Scarpino family?” I ask, blowing streams of smoke from my nose as I flip through the money and tuck the envelope in my back pants pocket. “I hear she’s untouchable.”
“Get it done.” He grunts and turns from me, heading back inside, leaving me alone to finish my cigarette in a giddy glee.
God, do I love a motherfucking challenge, and you my dear, you are it.
The rest of the day goes by lightning fast as the family arrives and the food starts moving out of my kitchen. I’m distracted in my regular work from the thoughts and ideas I’m already making for how to hunt, find, and end the “Recluse”. She’s the ghost of the Scarpino family, the one who supposedly holds the place of sole heir to the family’s fortune, but no one has ever seen her in person, and some people even think she doesn’t actually exist but in their imaginations.
If you do exist, my dear, I will find you, and you will not get a choice between clean and easy or hard and dirty. I want it all dirty with you baby.
“Hey boss man!” One of my dishwashers calls across the kitchen over the clamor of dishes rattling and utensils scraping pans. “You’re wanted up front.”
Wiping my hands off on the towel and handing my pan over to my sous chef, I leave the kitchen with a smirk. I know what this is. It’s the meeting with the head of the family, Mr. Salvatore Carlucci and the details I’m going to need to carry out his order.
The dining room is bustling with the whole extended family around the large, white linen covered tables. The children run around the room, weaving in and out of the waitstaff, causing a ruckus that no one interferes with because it keeps them occupied and out of the adult conversations.
Soft Italian instrument music filters through the speakers hidden in the corners behind realistic looking greenery that the staff cleans on the daily, and flatware clinks quietly across the porcelain plates.
You would never know by looking around the restaurant that this is the wealthiest and most dangerous criminal enterprise ever to creep under the federal law’s radar.
God, I love this fucking family.I think to myself as I dodge little Jimmy and his twin sister Nadine between the two head tables where Salvatore sits, flanked by his two nieces, Angelica and Monica.
“Damien!” Salvatore calls out to me boisterously, reaching his arms out from his seat for a hug before I’ve even rounded the table to him.
His pure white hair is slicked back, and his pin stripe suit is tailored perfectly to his slightly chunky frame. His dark brown eyes are alight with joy, as they always are, and with the neatly trimmed beard on his face he almost looks like a well put together mafia Santa.
