Chapter 2 - Table Eleven
The quiet authority in Dominic Moretti’s voice made the air in the foyer feel heavy.
I didn't answer him. I couldn't.
“Go outside,” Moretti repeated, his tone smooth, measured, and entirely unyielding. “Bring the mother and the child back inside before they reach the corner.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked toward the kitchen, hoping Mr. Bennett or the head maître d' would step out to intervene, but the dining room was strangely still. The floor captain, who usually monitored every square inch of the room, was standing twenty feet away, glaring at his shoes as if deeply fascinated by the weave of the carpet.
Nobody interrupted Dominic Moretti.
I pushed open the heavy mahogany entrance door and ran out into the biting wind. The icy rain stung my face instantly, soaking through my thin white dress shirt.
Emily and Sophie were already half a block down North Clark Street, huddled together beneath a broken black umbrella that whipped violently in the storm. The little girl was shivering, her small shoulders hunched high against the cold as her mother tried to pull her thin navy coat over them both.
“Wait!” I shouted, my voice swallowed by the roaring Chicago traffic. “Please, wait!”
I ran down the wet pavement, my flat serving shoes slipping on the wet asphalt. I caught up to them outside a closed pharmacy.
Emily turned around, her posture instinctively defensive, pulling Sophie behind her back. Her grey eyes were filled with weary caution. “Did I leave something behind?”
“No,” I panted, my hair plastered to my forehead by the rain. “I... I made a mistake. Please come back inside. We have a table for you.”
Emily stared at me, her dark eyebrows knitting together in confusion and quiet suspicion. “Miss, I told you I only have twelve dollars. I can’t afford a full meal here.”
“It doesn't matter,” I urged, the shame burning hot in my chest despite the freezing rain. “Please. A gentleman inside requested that you be seated. Please come back.”
Emily hesitated, looking down at her daughter. Sophie’s teeth were chattering softly, her face pale under the harsh yellow streetlights. The mother swallowed her pride, looked back at me, and gave a single, exhausted nod.
When we walked back through the brass doors of Bellamy’s, the contrast between the freezing street and the warm, opulent dining room felt almost violent. Rain dripped from my uniform onto the floor, but I didn't care anymore.
I led them past the host stand toward the middle section, but as I reached for a menu near the four empty tables, a quiet voice cut through the soft jazz music.
“Over here, Miss Dawson.”
Dominic Moretti was standing beside Table Eleven.
The floor captain had already pulled out two plush leather chairs. On the pristine white tablecloth sat three glasses of warm water, a basket of freshly baked focaccia steaming in a linen cloth, and a small silver bowl of whipped sweet butter.
Emily stopped in her tracks. Even in her state of sheer physical exhaustion, she recognized the subtle shifts in the room’s energy. She saw the waiters standing in rigid attention along the wall, the lowered eyes of the affluent patrons, and the imposing figure of the man standing at the head of the dark velvet booth.
“Sir,” Emily began, her voice tight with anxiety. “We cannot accept—”
“Sit down, ma'am,” Moretti said gently, interrupting her without raising his voice. He pulled out the leather chair himself—a gesture I had never seen him perform for anyone in the three months I had worked at Bellamy’s. “The storm outside is bad. Let the little girl dry her shoes.”
Sophie looked at the basket of warm bread on the table. Her small hand tightened on her mother’s wet sleeve, her eyes wide with unshielded longing.
Emily looked at Moretti’s face, searching for cruelty or hidden motives. Finding only a calm, unreadable stillness, she slowly slid into the leather chair. Sophie scrambled up beside her, her small feet dangling inches above the dark carpet.
Moretti did not sit down with them. He remained standing, his posture straight, his hands rested loosely in his trouser pockets. He looked down at me.
“Miss Dawson,” he said calmly.
“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“Bring this table a bowl of the pomodoro fettuccine. Bring two portions of the prime rib, a bowl of the roasted winter vegetables, and hot chocolate for the child.” He paused, his dark eyes locking onto mine with absolute clarity. “And put it on my tab.”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, turning instantly toward the kitchen.
As I pushed through the double doors into the roaring heat of the prep line, Chef Marco looked up from the pass, his face flushed red from the stoves.
“What was that commotion out front, Claire?” Marco growled, wiping his brow with a towel.
“Table Eleven,” I said, my voice still trembling. “An order of fettuccine, two prime ribs, winter vegetables, and hot chocolate.”
Marco stopped wiping his face. His sharp blue eyes narrowed. “Moretti ordered food for guests? Who is at Eleven?”
“A woman and a little girl,” I said quietly. “They were out in the rain.”
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Marco stared at me for three long seconds, the clattering of pans and boiling water filling the silence between us. Then he turned to his sous-chef with a fierce intensity I had never seen before.
“Drop fresh fettuccine!” Marco roared across the kitchen. “Cut the prime rib from the center roast! Make sure the hot chocolate is made with real cream! Move!”
