Page 85 of The Don’s Omega

Elio nods. “Yep. If this is our experience, imagine how much worse it is for the average Joe who walks in.”

A few minutes later, our server, Sofia, comes back with the wine. “Sorry about the wait,” she mumbles. “I’ll take your food order as soon as I’m done with the wine.” She laughs nervously as she sets the glasses down, her hands visibly trembling. She’s reaching for the bottle to open it when Marco appears at her elbow. She stiffens, looking flustered at his arrival.

“Knife first,” he murmurs. “Foil, then the cork.” She fumbles the foil cutter and he takes it from her. “You’re rushing.” He demonstrates and hands it back to her. “Now. Present the label to Mr. Foschini.” He makes a clucking sound with his tongue. “No, turn it, so he can read it. Obviously.” He laughs snidely.

“Sorry,” she mutters, turning the bottle.

“There. Good. That’s right.” His voice is low, falsely pleasant, and relentless. He never stops commenting on everything she does. She looks scared to even make a move, and she’s unraveling under the criticism. It’s painful to watch.

She almost drops the bottle. “Gosh… sorry.”

“Just, focus, Sofia,” Marco grates. “It’s not rocket science.”

By the time she gets the cork out her hands are shaking badly. When she pours the wine it sloshes and a few drops hit the white cloth, a small spreading bloom of red.

“Oh, no,” she whimpers, looking at the dots on the cloth.

“Be more careful,” Marco snaps, and she flinches.

“Sorry,” she whispers looking at me. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, but I doubt she hears me. She’s too rattled.

Once the wine is poured, she pulls out her pad to take the food order. It’s not lost on me how her pen trembles over the paper like a seismograph stylus. Elio’s right, the staff is terrified of Marco.

“Most of our servers don’t write things down.” Marco gives her pad and pen a scathing look. “They remember the order in their heads, but she’s new. Hopefully you’ll forgive her.”

“Of course,” I say.

“Sorry,” Sofia says. “I just don’t want to forget anything.”

Elio’s tone is encouraging as he says, “There are probably fewer mistakes if you write down the order.”

“Hopefully.” She smiles weakly.

Marco glances at Elio, a spark of annoyance in his eyes. “I prefer that my staff doesn’t look like they’re scribbling down notes for an English test. It’s more professional to remember the orders verbally. Many of the fine dining establishments do it that way. But alas, Sofia isn’t there yet.”

“Sorry,” Sofia says for the millionth time, looking miserable.

“Seriously, it’s not a problem.” Elio smiles at her.

Marco clears his throat. “Now, Sofia, what have we forgotten? You’ve seated them, and you’ve poured, what’s wrong with this picture?”

She looks blank. “Uhhh.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’ve skipped the bread and oil entirely. Again. How many times have we gone over the sequence? Greet, bread, drinks, order. It isn’t difficult if you simply pay attention.”

Sofia’s face is crimson. Her eyes are shining. She opens her mouth and nothing comes out.

“She’s doing fine,” Elio says brusquely. “You’re making her nervous.”

Marco turns, slowly, eyebrows lifting. He looks like a man unpleasantly astonished that the furniture has opinions. “I understand it might look harsh from the outside, sir. But running a dining room at this level isn’t something most people can understand.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Elio says politely. “But even so, there’s no reason to speak so harshly to the staff.”

Marco’s smile is stiff. “I mean no harm and the staff knows that.”

“Are you sure?” Elio wrinkles his brow. “They seem terrified of you.”