Wanted by The Mafia [Bxb]

Eight

A few minutes later, Nathaniel found himself holding a tray on his left hand which he angled just above his shoulder. It was an odd position, but Valentino had told him that it was the general way waiters carried trays.

He slowly and carefully walked to the table Valentino was sitting at, not taking his eyes off the boy for even a split second. He analyzed his movements, glaring at his stiff muscles, not liking how tense the boy looked. Nathaniel was terrified of making even the smallest of mistakes, gulping as sweat trickled down his glistening forehead, face red as if he was suffocating.

"Nathaniel," boomed Valentino, making the agitated boy almost drop the tray that was slipping from his sweaty palm. "Y-Yes, sir?" He asked, his heart beating against his battered ribcage. He wanted to just crawl into a hole and die when he met Valentino's eyes that burned with rage.

"Loosen up, you look very stressed. Waiters move gracefully and swiftly, not like people who have sticks up their asses." Nathaniel was taken aback by the vulgar language Valentino used without a care, but the lack of profanity made him even more nervous.

"Y-Yes, sir." He lowered his arm enough so that he could place the soup he was carrying. With shaking hands, he placed it on the table, right in front of Valentino. The older boy didn't let him go, expecting him to say something. "Enjoy your meal," he whispered, cheeks heating up. Valentino shook his head, tutting. "Do you think you'll earn tips with such a hushed voice? The answer is clearly no. Raise your voice, speak with a friendly yet professional voice that had a confident tone."

Nathaniel attempted again, "Enjoy your meal," he said, this time louder and clearer. "Good boy," murmured Valentino, digging into his soup. Nathaniel jogged back to the kitchen to serve the next course. The cook glared at him, knowing that it was Nathaniel's fault that he had to rise earlier than normal. With a thud, he slammed the plate down onto the tray, glaring daggers at the new boy. Nathaniel just ignored it, feeling guilty that he was the cause of the cook losing sleep.

He sped up while walking back to Valentino's table, heart dropping when he noticed that the soup was almost completely untouched. "Did you not like your soup, sir?" He asked, moving it out of the way of the fresh meat he put in front of the man. "Tell the cook that it tasted like shit. Too salty." Valentino groaned, wiping his mouth. Nathaniel wouldn't even imagine saying something so rude, but he nodded anyway, taking the soup away.

As he stepped back into the kitchen, he spoke to the chubby cook who was much older than him. "He said that the soup was too salty. He didn't enjoy it, sir." He informed timidly, gripping the counter tightly as his head hung low, avoiding eye contact awkwardly. "Hah! Liar. Amore always loves my dishes. You're a liar, boy!" Nathaniel flinched as he was yelled at, playing with his straps as he whispered silently, "I'm not lying, sir." The cook's French accent was thick, and Nathaniel struggled to understand him. But when he yelled, his English was clearer.

"He doesn't like my cooking?!" He took a deep breath, nostrils flaring, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he grabbed a plate. "Then serve him this!" He said, aiming the plate at Nathaniel and flinging it at him. The boy's eyes widened, shutting them tightly instead of moving, frozen in his spot. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, Dalas?" Valentino's deep voice came from behind Nathaniel. He was holding the plate that was inches away from crashing into Nathaniel's head.

Valentino's voice was so cold, that it iced Nathaniel's heart, shivering at the tone. He sounded so bitter, piercing Dalas with his fierce eyes that burned with fury. He was fuming with anger, enraged that somebody had tried to harm his kitten. "How dare you try to harm my new employee. Get the fuck out of my restaurant before I shoot your dick off."