Chapter 3 - Giovanni (3)

A few seconds pass, but nada. Not even a twitch. My dick is dead right now. He's completely flaccid, not even paying attention.

When I crave something intense, I usually tamper it down with rough sex and that takes care of it. Tonight, though, I already got my share of violence. The evidence around the corner has already been wiped clean, but the effects from it still linger at the tips of my fingers.

Sex doesn't do it for me at the moment. I'm going to let her down easily because I'm a nice guy. Sort of.

I give her a lazy smirk and she takes it as me agreeing with her because she grabs my hand and guides it between her legs, begging, "Please, Gi—"

"Cindy, I'd love to, but—"

"My name is Tina." She slowly releases my hand, her brows knitting, clearly offended.

With the smirk still on my lips, I reach for her face, stroking her cheek with my thumb. Her scowl immediately disappears. "Tina. Right. Sorry. I've been preoccupied with work stuff. I'm not in the mood, sweetheart. Why don't you go back first? It's cold out here. I'll be right behind you."

Her shoulders weaken and she sighs, folding her arms across her chest. "Your loss."

"Totally." I agree just to humor her.

She goes back inside through the side door. I light another cigarette and play around my phone. It buzzes with a text notification.

[ Salvatore: Garbage thrown. ]

[ Gio: 👌🏻 You can go home. ]

[ Salvatore: What about you? ]

[ Gio: I'll leave when he does. ]

He knows I mean my father.

[ Salvatore: Call me if you need anything and please don't get wasted. ]

[ Gio: Yes, mom. ]

[ Salvatore: 😪 ]

I chuckle. He hates that and I like to tease him.

Leaning against the wall with my legs crossed at the ankles, I continue to scroll, smoke my cigarette, and catch up on my messages. I hear the door open and close with a creak. At first, I think the escort is back, but then a woman's faint voice starts talking one-sidedly like she's on a phone call. I ignore the noise and read through an email I haven't responded to yet. Although I put her in the background, I can still hear her.

"Hey, ma. How are you feeling?" Pause. "That's good. Do you need anything? I'll get off work in a couple of hours and get my pay after. I'll drop by the pharmacy on my way home and get them for you." Pause. "No, it's okay, ma. I still have some cash left after that. I'll be fine. Yeah. Don't worry. Are you hungry? I'll bring you something warm. Okay. See you soon."

The door swings open again and I think she left. I'm about to send a text to my club manager to check on things when another female's sharp voice comes through.

"You're fired."

This time, I turn my head to the left where the sound comes from and see a catering staff—which I think was the girl on the phone earlier, seeing as she has a phone gripped in her hand, and another one wearing a shirt and a pantsuit near the door, who must've been the one who just spoke.

"Excuse me?" The girl scoffs. "You're joking right?"

"No. You're fired. Pack your things and leave."

I cock a brow, and then look back down on my phone, but keep one ear to eavesdrop. What? It's not my fault they're in my vicinity.

Also, I don't really care, but is she firing her for taking a short call while working? That's a bit harsh. Not that it's any of my business.

"Out of nowhere? What did I do?" the girl argues.

"A guest complained about your bad service. I can't have you working for me anymore," says Pantsuit.

"Bad service? I wasn't even serving any guests directly tonight. I was in the kitchen!"

Pantsuit clears her throat. "That's not important. My decision is final. You're done."

Woah. What a bitch.

I glance over just when Pantsuit turns around and reaches for the doorknob. Miss Kitchen Staff vibrates in anger, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. She looks a bit familiar to me like that.

"I know what you're doing," the girl says. "You're firing me because I caught you fooling around with Randal while his wife was out. This is wrong. You know I can sue you for this right?"

Well well well. What a twist! I lock my phone, and pocket it, then I turn to watch them, folding my arms across my chest, still leaning against the wall. They still don't realize they have an audience and it makes this all damn sweeter.

You know the best soap operas to watch? It's the catfight and the violent slaps with sound effects that make you think the receiver should've twisted their neck if that happened in real life. I'm at the edge of my seat, waiting for what's about to happen.

Will Pantsuit scratch her? Will the girl?

That's probably a stretch, but anything will do. I'm silently chuckling, eager.

Also, for some reason, I feel strangely proud of this girl for standing up for herself. It can't be that easy talking back to a boss.

Pantsuit turns around abruptly, her face goes crimson and she gets in the girl's face. "You won't do that. With what money? You're neck-deep in your mother's medical bills and we'll make sure no attorney is going to handle your case. You know who I am. You know what pull I have. Do you really want to drag this out and put your name out there? No one will hire you again. So sue. But you won't win. Pack your stuff. You're clocked out early."

Tsk tsk tsk. I don't like you, Pantsuit. I focus on her name tag, catching the last name and making a mental note. The law has Kitchen Staff's back. All she needs is to report Pantsuit's ass and it'll be taken care of.

I expect the girl to stay quiet, but then she snaps back: "Fine! You want me gone? Give me my pay! I at least deserve that."

My my, passerotta. Atta girl.

Pantsuit angrily takes something out of her wallet. She tosses the bills and some change at the girl's feet. The sight leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and heaviness settles in my stomach.