If anyone had bothered to ask me five years ago what I wanted to do with my life, working in a restaurant in Italy wouldn’t have been too far from the top of my list. At least it meant I’d finally been able to make my real dream of traveling come true.
What I would have pictured said restaurant to be like, however, wouldn’t quite have been the same as the one I stood in right then. I might have imagined a little canal-side cafe in Venice or a fancy eatery filled with glass and chrome in Milan.
As it was, I now lived and worked in Florence. I’d fallen in love with the city within my first hour of arriving, and deciding to stay had been the easiest thing I’d ever had to do.
The same couldn’t be said for the restaurant where I worked. Antonio’s was a lower mid-range “authentic” Italian kitchen with dirty carpets on the floors in the dining room, spider webs in the darker corners, and a less than ethical owner.
The fact that they advertised it as being “authentic” was what had caught my attention in the job ad. Little had I known that by authentic, Antonio had meant he used his grandmother’s recipe for pizza and pasta dough. That was it, the full extent of his definition of authentic.
It had been a letdown when I’d realized it, but it was a job offered to me at a time when I had desperately needed one. As I stared at the grime covering the grouting between the tiles in the kitchen and the questionable spots of rust on the counters, I wondered for the umpteenth time if maybe I should have looked a little harder for a different job.
Antonio’s bark as he started our morning briefing ripped me out of my head and forced me to focus on the man who had become the bane of my existence.
“We don’t offer complimentary meals and we don’t have such a thing as free refills.” My boss glared at the gathered staff through narrowed hazel eyes. “It’s been brought to my attention that there are some of you who like to do these things, but no more. There are no free handouts in my restaurant.”
He folded his arms across his thick chest, his forearms resting on the bulk of his stomach. “If anyone has a problem with that, feel free to leave now.”
I let out a quiet sigh. We’d heard variations of this speech before, but nobody paid much attention to it. For the prices he charged his customers, we had to do something to lure them back.
Before I could convince myself that it was a bad idea, my hand shot up, and I cleared my throat to speak.
Antonio’s glare shifted to only me. Then he nodded and held out a hand to roll his finger in a circular motion. “Speak, my little American.”
My own eyes narrowed to slits. I hated it when he condescended to me in that tone, but he knew it, so he kept doing it. Reacting to him would only encourage his behavior.
Composing myself with a deep breath, I forced myself to smile and forged ahead. “If we gave five free espresso refills to every customer, we wouldn’t be losing any money and we would make it more attractive for them to come back.”
I heard someone snicker softly behind me, but I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble by bringing Antonio’s attention to them. Everyone in this room, except for maybe Antonio, knew that I was right.
“You really think I won’t lose any money if we give people five free refills?” He sneered at me, his expression twisting into a grotesque parody of itself. It sent chills down my spine, but not the kind born out of fear. This was disgust. Plain and simple. “Your American education is letting you down. Were you not taught math over there?”
“I was.” My cheeks heated, but I didn’t back down. “Consumer studies have shown loyal patronage at places where they feel they’re getting something in return for it. At our profit margin, we could easily offer free refills while still making money.”
Antonio’s dark eyes rolled to the ceiling. I didn’t need to understand the string of whispered words to know he was cursing at me in his native language. I’d picked up enough Italian to know some of the words he uttered, and the general tone of his rant was perfectly clear anyway.
“You think you’re so smart?” he spat as his skin turned that mottled red color that was always a little alarming. “Do you really think I’m going to stand here and be insulted by a waitress?”
“I’m not trying to insult you.” Not that it was hard to insult the man. “I just think we could—”
He slashed a meaty hand through the air. “I don’t care what you think. This isn’t a debate. I’m the boss and you will do what I tell you to.”
Fan-freaking-tastic. My fingers curled into fists, but I managed a tight nod. Power-drunk idiot.
“Good.” He cut me another look. “I won’t warn you again, little American.”
It was a taunt and one I was very close to responding to, but I literally couldn’t afford to rise to the challenge. I nodded instead. “Understood, Antonio. I’ll get to work.”
He showed me his tobacco-stained teeth with what I assumed was supposed to be a smile, then waved me away.
The dining room filled with patrons soon after and I tried not to think about the fact that I worked for a man I had no respect for. At least I was getting to do it in beautiful Italy, so there was a very definite silver lining.
A few of my regulars came in and asked Ana, who was our front-of-house, to sit in my section. I smiled as I welcomed them and took their orders.
“What can I get for you today, Mrs. Romano?” I asked
