Sweet Addiction: Deal with Mr Ceo

AVA’s POV

There’s a mood that comes with working in the “La Table d’Elise” restaurant. Maybe it’s the groups of rich men and women looking down on us, the workers, as they move in fleets and duos, booking the best tables, having the best meals, and these meals being served by the lower class. They get a kick from it, I think.

One of the servers being me, of course. I remember coming to Monaco from Italy, thinking this would be the land of possibilities and I would make enough money to send home to my sick brother, but it’s been job after job and little pay after little pay.

Tonight, though, we are going to be paid double what we are usually paid because of a private party. I love the private parties mostly by the women; it’s either pasta and wine or a tea party during the day; the parties that involve a lot of men and drinking; you can already guess how that goes; there are tormenting us the servers, trying to bring us home with them, looked down on, spit on, or ass smacked by drunk men we’ve never met before.

So when Mr. Oliver tells me I’m on kitchen duty today, washing the heeps of plates coming into the washing sink, I decide the pay would be nice.

Moving towards the kitchen after the brief, we all move to our lockers to get ready for the day.

‘I heard we are hosting the Falcone Family tonight,’ I hear a girl whisper to the other girls.

Putting my black hair in a tight bun and pulling off the black t-shirt I was wearing, I pay attention to the gossip.

‘But do you think Leornado Falcone will be here? I heard he’s hard to see this past year after his failed marriage’, a dark-haired girl says as she pulls on her clothes, and I follow suit.

‘Failed marriage? I heard he didn’t get to marry her, and she died two days before the wedding’, her friend replies.

‘How sad’, another red-headed girl replies, ‘but is it true what they say about him’?

‘What do they say about him?’ The dark-haired girl continues with the gossip while I pull on my pants for tonight. My mouth is still shut since I do not interest myself in having conversations or being friends with the people I work with.

‘That he’s involved in the European Mafia, not only involved, but he heads the pioneering mafia group in Europe and even America,’ she says, and they all gasp and chuckle to themselves like the rumors affect them in any way.

‘What do you think, Ava?’ The redhead turns to me, hands folded in a stance that resembles a fighting stance.

‘I’ve never heard of him.’ I shrug my shoulders, pushing the locker door close and walking away.

Now I’m not lying about not knowing who Leonardo Falcone is, but I do know about the Falcone family. I’ve heard numerous stories about them in Italy, especially in the shipping docks; they are very popular there. I’ve seen their yacht at the docks once, and it was huge; I could almost compare it to a cruise ship.

Growing up in Italy, the Falcone name was a household name; it was on everyone's lips. Anyone with that surname we were told to be careful around; if anyone were to get into trouble with them, they would mysteriously disappear, and no one would do anything about it. They were spotted around royalties but also married into the royal family or betrothed; they hung around ministers; and they were also known for being sinister.

I never heard about who was the head of the family since the rumors were too many to keep up with. They were in every magazine and every newspaper, both online and offline. It was crazy in Italy, but here in Monaco, I hardly heard anything about them, so I simply forgot about them.

I enter the kitchen, and I’m glad I won't be serving outside tonight. If it were the Falcone family, it would involve a lot of men. Breathing out a sigh of relief, I pull open the windows, placing an AirPod in my ear and a Spanish song blasting in my ears, pulling on my washing gloves. I head to the sink to wash off some plates from some people we served earlier during the day. I’m also glad I get to do this job alone; it allows me to be by myself, which I thoroughly enjoy, and plan my pay for the night in peace.

I would send half to my anemia-sick-ridden brother stuck in Italy. I would use some to pay off my debts, but remember, I’m still owing a -month-old rent.

Let me tell you this: rent in Monaco is expensive as hell, but I forget about that and focus on getting the job done first.

Humming to myself, the night starts to settle and our guests start to come in, and from the servers and the cooks, I can already guess it’s all males. The server's smiles start to drop during the night, and I can already guess how it’s going.

Happily, I continue washing the dishes when Mr. Oliver walks into the room.

‘Ava, we need an extra hand out there; remove the gloves and the apron and follow me,’ he says with a heavy British accent.

‘But sir, I stutter, expecting I’ll escape tonight, ‘who will wash the dishes?

‘We will get that sorted’. He turns around, frowning at me.

‘Sir, I came in with trousers only today’. I point out my black pants; hopefully, he’ll let me be since I didn’t have a skirt in and he wouldn’t want to ruin the reputation of the restaurant, of course.

He looks down at my skirt and tuts. ‘It’s fine; follow me, Ava, or else’ he narrows his eyes at me.

I sigh and follow him; he hands me a white apron this time, along with the small booklet and a pencil, and practically draws me outside of the kitchen door.

You see, the restaurant is usually always in tip-top shape, beautifully decorated with flowers, and I would say one of the best restaurants on the block, but stepping into the restaurant, I’m plunged into darkness. The restaurant is lit up with only a low blue light, the smoke in the air is thick, and the room is quite serious, but with the usual four or five drunk men on the side, I look around and find the redhead female before removing what I think is the second meal for the night.

I straighten my back, put on the most fake smile I could think of, and head towards the table.

‘Good evening, sir. I’ll be one of your servers today. I’m Ava, and I'd like to take your order’. I try to speak confidently—keyword: confidently—but the men in the room make a chill run up my spine in fear.

The man on my left turns up at me, squeezes his face, and raps off his order, and like a domino, they all do the same while I try to catch up. Luckily, there’s another server who joins me, and we manage to get everything through their drunken slur.

We head to the kitchen, and the girl turns to me. ‘No Leonardo Falcone tonight, uh,’ she frowns.

I nod at her, ‘But do you know what he looks like?’ I turn to see her eyebrow raised.

‘Of course, he’s practically in every magazine.’ She looks around and tries to pull out her phone, but she stops when Mr. Oliver walks into the room.