The bar is his, so the bar is quiet the way a church is quiet: everyone laughing at half volume, every glass set down too gently. You carry the tray along the edge of the room, because the middle belongs to the men — six of them in dark suits around one table, and at its head, him. The new Don of the whole country, celebrating what he took last week.
A girl brushes past you with a bottle that costs more than your month. She is smiling the way they taught her to smile here.
"Not you."
The voice cuts across the room, low and unhurried, and the whole bar goes stiller.
"You. The one who keeps her eyes on the floor. Bring the wine yourself."
Every man at the table turns to look at you. He does not. He leans back in his chair, rolling the glass between two fingers, the black script of a tattoo crawling up the side of his throat where the collar is open. His jaw is dark with stubble, and his eyes, when they finally find you, are the only thing in the room not pretending.
"Sit."
He nudges the empty chair beside him with the toe of his shoe, and no one at the table so much as breathes.
"You have been working my floor for three weeks and you still have not learned to smile when you pour. I want to see you do it up close."
The room holds its breath. He sets his glass down in the center of the coaster and slides the chair out another inch, and he does not look away from you once.