Chapter 3 - He Watched the Door While Matteo Watched Me
I didn't look away from Matteo, but I saw the bald man move anyway.
You learn to do that on shift. You keep your eyes on the table you're serving while you track everything else in the room. A kid sliding out of a booth. A cup tipping near an edge. A manager coming out of the back with that walk that means the fry timer's been going too long. That afternoon I tracked him the same way. He'd been behind Matteo since I'd carried the tray over, standing near the brick wall with his hands clasped low. Now his shoes made a soft sound on the tile and he drifted to my left, not straight at us, but out toward the open lane between the tables and the front counter.
My tray was on the light wood table. I could feel how close it was to my right hand. The white cup with the yellow arches had left a wet ring on the black plastic. The little burger box hadn't been touched.
Matteo hadn't moved back. He was still standing too close, his gray jacket open over his black shirt, the ink on his neck rising above the collar when he breathed. I could smell coffee and something sharp, like aftershave put on that morning. His eyes stayed on my face. He didn't blink much.
The bald man stopped about ten feet off. Side angle. He wasn't looking at me directly. He was looking past me, toward the windows and then toward the door.
That's when my stomach tightened. If you draw a line from where I stood, he was between me and the register. Between me and the back hall, too. The dining area had felt big when I'd walked in with daylight coming through the large windows. Now it felt arranged.
I took a slow breath through my nose. I kept my hands still. My ponytail had slipped a little forward over my shoulder and I left it there.
"You don't need him for this," I said. My voice came out lower than I expected.
Matteo's mouth moved, not quite a smile. "I don't need anyone for this."
He didn't turn his head. He lifted his left hand just off the table, two fingers out, and made a short motion to the side. Barely anything. Like he was brushing dust off his sleeve.
The bald man stopped mid-step. He settled his weight back on his heels and folded his hands again. He didn't go back to the wall. He held where he was.
I understood that, and I hated that I understood it. Matteo wasn't worried I would run. He was letting me see that I couldn't, and then telling his guy to wait anyway. It was control on both ends.
A chair scraped two tables over. A woman with a stroller glanced at us and then looked down fast at her phone. A teenage boy with headphones around his neck stared for a second too long until his friend elbowed him. The warm overhead lights buzzed faintly. Somewhere behind the counter the fryer beeped.
I calculated without wanting to. Ten feet to the bald man. Maybe fifteen to the register if I went straight. Twenty to the back hall if I cut around the condiment stand. None of it mattered if I wasn't going to run, but my brain did it anyway. Old habit. When a table gets loud, you learn where your exits are.
Matteo noticed me noticing. His gaze flicked, just for a half-second, toward my hands, then back up.
"You're counting," he said.
"I'm working," I said.
"You're doing both."
I didn't answer that. The cup had started to sweat more in the heat from the windows. A drop ran down the side and pooled on the tray. I wanted to wipe it. I didn't move.
The bald man shifted his stance. His suit jacket pulled when he crossed his arms. He was older up close than he'd looked from behind Matteo, skin shiny under the lights. His expression didn't change. Stern wasn't even the right word. He looked patient, like he'd done this kind of waiting before and didn't mind doing it again.
Matteo leaned in a fraction. Not touching me. Close enough that I had to hold my ground not to step back.
"You're not afraid," he said. It wasn't a compliment.
"I'm on the clock," I said.
That seemed to amuse him for real this time. A short breath out through his nose. He glanced down at the untouched food on my tray, then back at me.
"Your friend over there," I said, nodding just with my eyes toward the left, "he's making my other tables nervous."
"He's not your problem," Matteo said.
"He's in my section."
For a moment neither of us spoke. I could hear the air conditioner kick on above us and the paper of the burger box softening where the steam was trapped inside. The bald man didn't move again after Matteo's signal. That was the point, I realized. He was supposed to stay visible. Matteo wanted me to feel the shape of it and still choose to stay talking.
I made the choice. I let my shoulders drop a quarter inch. I unclenched my jaw. I didn't look at the door again.
"Okay," I said quietly.
Matteo studied me. The intensity didn't leave his face, but something in his posture eased. Not kindness. Just a decision to keep this verbal.
May you like
"Good," he said.
Behind us, the front door chimed as someone walked out, and the bald man's head turned toward the sound on instinct before he caught himself. I stayed where I was, beside the light wood table, with the tray between me and Matteo Morealio and the whole dining area holding its breath around us.
