Chapter 4 - The Waitress Who Refused To Bow
Amara didn't flinch. She didn't drop her gaze, nor did she step backward into the shadows of the pantry. She simply stood beside her prep station with her hands folded neatly in front of her apron, her face as calm and still as a frozen lake. Marcus walked across the kitchen floor, his heavy leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the tile, stopping just inches away from her. Up close, he towered over her by a full foot, radiating the raw, intimidating aura of a man who solved problems with a shovel and a bag of lime. "Is that true, little girl?" Marcus asked, his voice low and dangerous. "You knew there was poison in the pot, and instead of reporting it to management like a good little employee, you knocked it over?" "I didn't report it to management," Amara replied, her voice steady and crystal clear, cutting through the panicked whimpers of Carlo on the floor, "because Vincent Marconi wouldn't have called the police. He would have wiped down the counter, blamed a prep cook, and served the plate anyway just to secure his catering contract with the De Luca construction firm." Marcus narrowed his eyes, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his scarred features. "You have a lot of nerve talking about management like that while standing in a room full of dead men." "I'm not talking about management," Amara said, her eyes meeting his without a shred of fear. "I'm talking about survival. Carlo tried to poison your boss. I prevented it by destroying the evidence before it reached the table. If you want to shoot me for ruining your dinner, go ahead. But if you want to know who really supplied the poison and why, you need to take me to Mr. De Luca right now." The kitchen went dead silent. Even Carlo stopped crying, staring at Amara as if she had lost her mind. You didn't give orders to Matteo De Luca’s men, and you certainly didn't demand an audience with the boss like you were booking a hair appointment. Marcus stared at her for five long, agonizing seconds. Then, slowly, a grim, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth. He pressed a small comms button on his lapel. "Boss," Marcus spoke into the receiver. "We found the sous-chef who cooked the meal. And we found the waitress who stopped him. She says she needs a word with you." A brief pause crackled through the earpiece. Then Matteo’s low, cultured voice responded: "Bring them both. The front table."
