“She Can’t Even Read the Menu!”—Then the Waitress Answered in Fluent French and Silenced the Mafia Boss
Sophie gripped the water pitcher tight. She should walk away. She should get Laurent. But then she looked at Alessandro.
He was not sneering like Camilla. He was watching her with a curious, predatory intensity. He was waiting to see if she would break.
Sophie took a breath.
She set the pitcher down. The sound was a soft thud on the tablecloth. She turned to Camilla, her posture straightening. The submissive slouch vanished.
“Mademoiselle pointe vers une Muscadet Sèvre et Maine,” Sophie said.
Her voice had changed. The shaky American accent was gone, replaced by the crisp, melodic, authoritative cadence of a native Parisian.
Camilla blinked.
“What?”
Sophie continued, her eyes locking onto Alessandro’s. She spoke in French, but the fluidity was so perfect it sounded like music.
“It is a dry white wine, acidic, typically paired with oysters. It is certainly not a Bordeaux. If monsieur desires the 1982, he is looking for the Château Mouton Rothschild on page 14, 3rd line from the bottom.”
She reached over, her hand steady, and flipped the heavy pages of the wine list with a single graceful motion. She landed exactly on page 14.
“Furthermore,” Sophie said, switching to flawless, unaccented English, her voice cool and professional, “the vintage you were pointing at, mademoiselle, is corked. Monsieur Laurent keeps it on the list only to test the tourists. I would never serve it to a palate as refined as Mr. Moretti’s.”
Silence.
Absolute, suffocating silence.
Monsieur Laurent, who had rushed over to intervene, skidded to a halt, his mouth agape. Camilla’s face turned a violent shade of crimson.
She sputtered, “Are you—how dare you speak to me like—”
Alessandro raised his hand.
One finger.
Camilla snapped her mouth shut instantly.
Alessandro slowly turned his gaze from the wine list to Sophie. The boredom was gone from his eyes. In its place was something much more dangerous.
Interest.
“You speak French,” Alessandro stated.
It was not a question.
“I do,” Sophie replied, meeting his gaze.
She knew she was likely fired.
She did not care.
“And you know wine.”
“I know that serving a Muscadet with steak would be a crime against humanity, signore.”
A corner of Alessandro’s mouth twitched.
It was almost a smile.
“What is your name?”
“Sophie.”
“Sophie.”
He tested the name, rolling it around his tongue like a sip of whiskey.
“You’re not from Brooklyn, are you, Sophie?”
“Everyone is from somewhere, Mr. Moretti. Right now, I am simply from table 4.”
Alessandro stared at her for a long, heavy moment. Then he closed the wine list.
“Get the Rothschild,” he commanded, never breaking eye contact with her, “and bring another glass.”
Camilla perked up.
“Oh, Alessandro, you’re too kind. I—”
“Not for you,” Alessandro said coldly, cutting her off.
He gestured to the empty seat across from him, the seat next to Camilla.
“For her.”
He pointed at Sophie.
“Sit down, Sophie.”
The entire restaurant gasped.
A waitress sitting with the don.
It was unheard of.
May you like
It was suicide.
“Sir, I cannot,” Sophie stammered, the adrenaline fading into fear. “My shift. Monsieur Laurent will fire me.”
