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Tonight's entertainment was one of Peter's favorites. They were an immigrant couple with accents that Peter couldn't quite place, but he suspected they were Swedish. None the less, the woman sang so sweetly and her man was talented with that saxophone. On a good week, they got to perform Wednesday and Thursday nights. The guy that owned the joint had a superiority complex about Italians. Peter had only gotten the job thanks to his uncle Ben's mother being Italian. He wasn't exactly Italian enough to become a mob boss what with his parents being mostly Irish, his aunt mostly Jewish. Still, they let him walk among them serve drinks and give irritated glances at the ones who pinched his ass as he walked by.
Despite the groping and the flirting that occasionally turned to threats when someone had too much to drink, Peter was safe with them. He never had to worry about anyone hauling him off since the men that watched the door had his back and if someone were to try and shoot up the place, well the last time it happened the now dead double-crosser had politely (and then less politely) suggested that Peter step outside and get some fresh air. His feet had just hit the pavement behind the lounge when the shooting started. He hid behind the dumpster and the two guys watching the back door didn't bother him, even after shooting an apprentice who tried to make a run for it. They guys here had his back. For Peter, this was the safest place in New York.
Peter leaned against the divider between the kitchen and the lounge area. He stared at the steam rising up from a pan and mindlessly swayed his hips to the rhythm of the music. Georgio slid a plate onto the counter and Pete shot him a quick smile as he picked it up. He turned back to the lounge and set himself in the rhythmic stride he'd made up for himself. It was similar to the flirtatious walk of the woman in the lounge, but it wasn't Peter's intention to emulate a woman. There were plenty of men in the mob who enjoyed dressing in women's clothes or behaving like women and Peter had decided pretty quickly that it wasn't for him. Not that he was judging or anything. To each their own. Besides, when Georgio made up his face, you'd never know he wasn't a woman. Some of the guys had real talent.
Peter carried the plate to a table near the back exit and set it down in front of its intended guest.
“Hush, hush,” he heard one of the guys whisper, silencing a friend.
“Oh, you hush,” the other man said back. “It's only Peter. He's the most loyal doll in the joint.”
“Says you, Franco Moretti,” Peter shot him a look. “I don't belong to any mob.”
“Or anyone do ya, sweetheart?” Paul De Luca gave him a lingering look that traveled all the way to his toes.
“I'll keep your secrets, boys, but I won't lay in your beds. Ask the women,” he winked, then he turned and sauntered his way out of there before they could try to talk him into staying for a drink.
Gwen was bouncing on her feet when Peter found her by the kitchen. “Did he speak to you?” she nearly squealed.
“Franco? Every night.”
“No,” she rolled her eyes. “Anthony Stark.”
“Who?” Peter shrugged and picked up a plate from the counter. Gwen smacked his shoulder.
“Tony Stark, the friggin Don. And I mean the friggin Don. The one all other Dons want dead because he's gotten too big. He almost never goes out.”
“I didn't know you were a fan. I'll get you an autograph.” Gwen huffed as Peter walked away. He shook his head. He never understood why people were so impressed with the mob. They ran around killing people and getting themselves killed and then they ate and drank like kings as if they'd done something great. Meanwhile, Peter had spent his whole life waiting tables, serving drinks, cleaning dishes, you name it. He'd been working a steady job since he was fourteen. So no, he didn't think it was very impressive to rob and kill people.
Now he was a little bit curious, though. He knew just about every mobster in the city, but he'd never met Tony Stark. He went back to their table to pass out fresh liquor, most of it made here in New York. Only one man at the table was still nursing the same glass of Scotch. Everyone else had downed theirs. Given that it was a particularly hard to come by bottle he'd asked for, Peter should have noticed that he wasn't like the others, but then again he'd been keeping his head down lately. A few of the guys had crushes on him and if they decided that he belonged to them, whether or not he did, there could be bloodshed. He should have looked more at this guy. He was a spectacle.
Tony Stark, because it couldn't have been anyone else, wore a three-piece, navy-blue suit. Both of his hands sparkled with gold rings. On his left wrist was a gold watch. He sat up tall with pride and his smile looked just as rich as his jewelry. He was the only one at the table without a crooked nose, a missing tooth, or an obvious scar. He was the pampered spoiled son of a mob boss poisoned by his own counselor. Peter smiled pretty as he served the drinks, but he didn't let his eyes linger too long on Stark. In fact he made sure to look equally as long at the others to keep from seeming interested in the man at all.
The night continued on as it always does. Peter served drinks, swayed to the music, spent some time chatting with the other servers, and waved off the growing sexual advances as the hour grew later. At the end of the night, he and Gwen wiped down tables while another woman swept up and Georgio cleaned the kitchens. The rest of the girls went home on someone's arm.
It was a shock to everyone, even to Peter who tried very hard not to care, when Tony Stark was back in the lounge the next night.
It was Peter who went to the door to greet him as he came in. The others were busy and Peter knew better than to keep a Don waiting.
“Good evening, Mr. Stark,” Peter smiled a little more than he really had to. “Would you like a table near the stage?”
“Seat me in your section, caro,” he winked.
Peter shivered and nodded. He turned on his heel and lead the man into the back, once again by the door. Tony slid into the booth and shrugged off his coat. Peter took it from him and folded it neatly over his arm.
“What can I get you, Mr. Stark?”
“Call me Tony.”
Peter swallowed. “Sure, Tony.”
“I'll have a Scotch. How's the lasagna?”
“Not as good as your mother makes, I can assure you,” Peter smiled. “Georgio can be a little heavy on the garlic.”
Tony's smile widened into a grin. His eyes sparkled under the lights. “Veal then.”
Peter nodded. “Sure thing, Tony.” He was a little breathless when he walked away. He couldn't deny the butterflies in his stomach. Assuming it was just the excitement of catching a Don's eye, he let it go and went back to his job. He didn't chat with Tony again until he'd finished his meal.
“How was it?” Peter asked, because he always asked, because he was good at his job.
Tony wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Better than my mamma could have dream of,” he said.
Peter grinned. “Glad you liked it. Can I get you anything else?” He reached to pick up the dirty plate and a rough hand wrapped loosely around his wrist. Peter flinched, slightly panicked, but he thought he managed to hide it well as he looked up.
“Sit with me a moment. The place is practically dead.”
Peter swallowed. He couldn't, he really couldn't. He never let himself get close to the mob, not like this. Sure they didn't go after families, they had rules. They wouldn't hurt his aunt, but wouldn't it hurt her enough if some mobster killed him? He took a slow breath and refused to let his wits leave him despite his nerves.
“Looking for a new Friday fling?” Peter smiled, hoping he came off teasing without showing that his knees were trembling. “That's not really my style.”
Tony let him go when he straightened up, taking the plate with him. Peter wasn't stupid. He'd seen the wedding band on his hand, he knew how the mafia worked. Girlfriends on a Friday, wives on a Saturday. Not that you could find a Don that wasn't married. He would have assumed without the ring. What was he thinking anyway? Married or not, he wasn't going anywhere with any man that entered the lounge. He didn't meet Tony's eye again before he walked away.
He hesitated to return to the table, but eventually he'd have to check on the man's drink. When he glanced in Tony's direction, he seemed to be enraptured by the performance on stage. It was Peter's favorite couple again. They'd managed to snag the Thursday night slot. He wondered if his praising them to the boss had won them some favor.
Putting on a brave face, he walked back to the table to see the man had finished his glass. “Can I get you another drink, Tony?”
Tony leaned back against the seat and looked up at him. “Sit down, Peter,” he patted the seat beside him.
It chilled him, but he did as he was told. He stared down at the table top.
“I kill your daddy or something, kid?”
Peter shuddered. For a moment he wondered... but obviously not. Both of his parents had been killed in a plane crash. His uncle on the other hand, no one knew who shot him other than that it was a robbery gone wrong. It could have been some low level mob associate trying to gain reputation or it could have been any other desperate New Yorker with a stolen gun.
“No, sir-”
“Then what's the cold shoulder about. I know people, Peter. I see you walking the line between trying to piss me off and trying to shake me off so what gives?”
He swallowed. His hands were flat against the table. “I uh...”
Tony touched a finger to Peter's chin and turned his head so he was looking at him. There was no turning away now. “I serve drinks, I clean up the spills, and I keep my nose clean. I don't get involved with the Mafia.”
He had this self assured smile on his face that riled Peter up. He wasn't a fan of smug. His eyes narrowed. “You boys aren't just dangerous. You're greedy, cocky, and out for yourselves. I deserve better than to be someone's trophy, but also, I deserve a life that isn't full of lies and murder. Despite what you may think, you're no exception to any of that Mr. Stark.”
He tried to slide out of the booth and a hand clamped down on his thigh. Peter jumped, his heart pounded. Why the fuck did he just say that?
His hand brushed Peter's cheek, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. Tony's voice was low. “Despite what you may think, angelo. You belong with the mob already. Maybe you hate us. Maybe you hate me, but our blood money puts food in your pretty little mouth.” The back of his hand swiped across Peter's lips in the parody of a slap.
Peter jumped up the minute his hands were gone. He went straight into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. What the hell had gotten into him? He was so good at being charming and sweet, but always keeping them at bay. He'd let Tony get to him and like an idiot he'd insulted a Don. A Don. He was going to find himself in a body bag if he wasn't careful.
He went back to the bar and poured another Scotch. Taking a deep breath, he walked back to Tony's table. The man was gone, leaving a fresh hundred dollar bill in his place. A Don didn't pay for dinner. That was for him.
Maybe he'd jumped the gun in thinking Tony had been bothered by him. Either way he needed to get a grip before he got himself into trouble.
Tony didn't come back Friday night and Peter was grateful. It was hard enough trying to manage a full house of mobsters and each of their girlfriends. At least on Fridays he got some relief from all the flirting. In a house full of beautiful women, no one needed Peter to entertain them.
“What happened with Tony Stark last night,” Gwen asked him the first chance they had to rest their feet.
Peter shrugged. “What do you mean?”
Gwen gave him a long look which expressed how stupid she was not. “You ran to the bathroom, he swallowed the rest of his glass, dropped some money on the table, and left without his coat.”
Peter blinked. “He left his coat?”
“Yeah. It's just hanging there in the entry all lonely and gray.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “You're not trying to push me on the guy are you?”
“Hell no. We're the only smart people in this lounge. We stay out of trouble and we don't end up dead.”
They didn't talk about the girls who never came back to the lounge. The last time they'd seen their faces, they were in the paper. It was why Peter stayed friendly, but never close, with the other staff.
Soon after dinner, about half of the crowed cleared out. They were on their way to the theater, the bowling alley, the mall, wherever they could show off their status gained by having such a beautiful woman on their arm. The rest sat and drank, enjoying the performance on stage. That's about the time Peter spotted Tony by the door laughing with Georgio. He took a step back so he was closer to the wall and tried not to look like he was eavesdropping.
“That's wives for you,” Georgio chuckled.
“Must have had a lot on my mind, not that she'd except that as an excuse.”
Peter turned and looked to see Georgio hand the man his missing coat. He shrugged it on.
“Not staying tonight, sir?”
“Nah, enjoy the circus,” he chuckled. Georgio laughed.
“Goodnight, Mr. Stark.”
“Yeah, see ya, Georgio,” he said, then he was gone. Some part of Peter was satisfied that he didn't have a woman on his arm. In fact he only seemed to speak of his wife. He admired a man with loyalty, but wasn't that ironic when he was just flirting with Peter the night before.
He took his nosy ears back to his section where Franco looked up from pressing kisses into the neck of a giggling girl to wink at him. “Heard you made an impression on the boss,” he said.
Peter tried not to look as stunned as he felt. He shrugged like it didn't matter. “I'm a likable guy.”
Sean, Paul De Luca's flame haired and Scottish, boyfriend, cackled. He was clearly drunk. His nose covered in tiny freckles wrinkled as he tossed his head back. “That's not the word I'd use! They say he's smitten!”
Paul shushed him, smiling fondly. Sean was one of the ones who got to stick around. Not like Franco's girl. This was first time Peter had seen her.
Peter shivered. Getting Don Stark's attention was the last thing he'd wanted. Why was he so stupid? Lucky for him, he didn't see Tony again for another week. Unfortunately, from then on he became a regular at Franco's table.
The first thing he noticed we how Tony watched him. He could feel his eyes on him when he wasn't looking and when he was looking, his gaze was captivating. So captivating that Peter bumped into another server and two trays of drinks went on the floor. Peter had to suffer the humiliation of cleaning up the mess he made while the man continued to watch him, only now there was this tiny amused smile on his face. Later when he went to ask Elena if he could pay for her dry cleaning she assured him that it was taken care of and quickly excused herself as her cheeks grew increasingly red.
A few days later was when Peter realized something very strange. He couldn't remember the last time someone pinched his ass or called him sweetheart. There weren't any crude yet lighthearted gestures, no joking about back alley flings or Friday night dates. As a matter of fact, none of the boys at Tony's table even looked at him unless they were speaking to him and they were quick to look away when they were done. He needed to have a talk with Tony. He needed to make it clear that he didn't belong to him and that he never would. That no matter what Tony did he would never risk his life for some romantic fling that only leave him heartbroken when Tony found someone new. He just didn't know how to say those things without offending him.
It took a few days for him to work up the courage, but as it turned out he'd picked the worst day possible. It was a Friday, yet something strange was going on. There was an energy in the air that Peter couldn't place. He assumed it was just his own nerves. He marched his way down to Tony's table, delivering regular orders for those who were always the same. Before he could ask what anyone else wanted, Tony made eye contact with him and he said, “We need to talk.”
He was up from his seat and hauling Peter away from the table before he could even answer.
“Yeah, we do. See, Mr. Stark- I mean, Tony,” he started once they were away from the table. Tony was still walking though, still dragging him away. “It's very flattering, sir, that you seem to have taken an interest in me and, forgive me if I'm wrong-”
Tony stopped once they were at the end of the hall. From here there was a door into the kitchen and a pay phone. Everything else was at the far end of the hall.
“You shouldn't be here,” Tony interrupted.
Peter's skin prickled. “I can take care of myself.”
“No, caro, I mean...” He ran a hand over his face. “It's Friday.”
“Yeah... and?”
“It's Friday so what's missing?”
Peter stopped and he thought. What was that weird vibe he was feeling? “The band isn't playing?”
Tony stared at his face. His expression was tense, anxious. He wanted Peter to realize something without saying. But what couldn't he say? Peter glanced at the kitchen. The boys who worked the kitchen were only as indoctrinated as Peter. Unless they weren't... unless someone was a snitch or a spy or a double-crosser. That was the bad energy. Something was about to go down.
“The band isn't coming today, caro. Neither are the girls. Most of the staff was given the day off. Why weren't you?”
“I don't have a phone in my apartment.”
Tony sighed. Then he glanced through the window into the kitchen. “Come here.”
He dragged Peter through the swinging door. Heart pounding, he didn't argue. He even let Tony shove him down under the counter.
“Stay here until I come to get you,” he said. Peter had never seen a more grim expression on a man's face. He nodded without a word. Tony walked away leaving him curled up with his arms around his legs. He stayed quiet, still, listening. Aside from the absence of music, everything seemed so normal.
Georgio came into the kitchen. Peter's heart pounded. Should he warn him? What if he was the hit? But what did it matter to Peter? He wasn't loyal to Tony or his crew. Georgio was good to him. He was just about to open his mouth to warn him, when he realized what Georgio was grabbing from underneath the sink. He'd never seen a Tommy gun up close. As the gun fire started, Peter closed his eyes.
There was a thud in the kitchen that seemed to cut through the gunfire. Georgio was on the ground, moaning. Peter crawled out from his hiding place. Without thinking he grabbed a dish towel and pressed it against the blood blossoming on his shirt.
“Georgio?”
The man's eyes seemed unfocused. “Is that you, Peter? You shouldn't be here.”
“What's going on?”
“Frankie made a bad deal. Him and his boys had to pay for it.” He coughing, blood spattering his chin.
“Looks like you're the one paying.” His voice broke. He tried not to cry, but it was hard to hold back when he was sure Georgio was dying.
The man patted his hand. “It's okay, kid. I owe the mob more than my life. They can have it.” His eyes closed, but Peter could still feel his heart beating. He pressed hard, holding the cloth against the wound with all his might. He wasn't even sure if it was working to stop the bleeding.
The gunfire stopped. Then the kitchen door swung open. “Peter?”
“Mr. Stark! Over here!” Peter called out to him, praying he would help and he wouldn't just pop the guy. Georgio was a good guy, or at least he seemed like one.
“Dammit! Georgio!” Tony dropped down onto the floor, beside Peter. He took the bloody rag from his hands. Blood seeped out, but it was slower now than before. He recovered the wound, pressing tight.
“Tony?” Peter hated that his voice sounded so weak, but it seemed fair given the circumstances.
“It'll be alright, angelo. Franco! Get in here!” Tony stared as the blood on his hands. His face was unnervingly angry.
Franco came running in next. “Oh God, Georgio...”
Peter moved out of the way as Franco joined Tony on the floor. Several others came running in. Peter felt faint. He could feel blood drying on his hands. How could this happen? He'd worked so hard to stay away from all this. He backed up until he hit the swinging door, then he fell backward into the hallway. The door to get outside was at the end of the hall close to the dining room. He just needed to get out, get some air, go home where there was no blood or gunfire.
One hand held him up against the wall. His legs dragged him forward. He didn't even hear the sobbing until he was standing in the dining room. He saw the backs of heads, slumped against the seats, before he saw the holes where bullets had cut through their bodies and through the furniture. The room was in such disarray that he could barely sort through the chaos. Then Tony was there, jogging down the hall and shielding Peter from the sight.
“Outside, caro,” he said. His hands took hold of Peter's shoulders. He stood frozen, eyes locked with Tony's chest, but unseeing the man in front of him. “Partire! Outside, bello! Now!”
His shouting jarred Peter to move. He walked, letting Tony guide him out the door. More of Tony's men were outside. Every face was grim.
“Peter!” Peter blinked, finally seeing as a man hurried over to him. “Are you hurt? Are you alright? Is it alright?” he asked Tony.
“Sean? What are you doing here?”
“I don't listen well. Never can stay away. Fridays are my day and I'll not be missing the fun!”
“Well... happy Friday.”
Sean gave a humorless laughed. “Happy Friday indeed! My Paulie will never play the fiddle for me again! Bullet sliced right through his hand didn't it?”
“Is he alright?”
“He's drinking away his sorrows like a good lad. You might want to try it. You're paler than a ghost.”
Tony's arm tightened around his shoulder. “I'll take care of him. You see to your man,” he said.
“Yeah, like you took great care of your men tonight, eh boss man?”
Tony glared. He stepped around Peter. He wasn't much taller than Sean, but he held himself like he was seven feet tall.
“And you don't intimidate me neither,” Sean glared back.
“Hey, leprechaun! Paul needs you over here kissing his boo-boo's,” one of them men called from where they were gathered.
“Ah,” Sean took a step back. “You know what you did. I suppose that's to your credit.” He walked back to the group who were sharing a bottle.
Tony stomped off and Peter didn't question that he was to follow. He was too shaken to argue. He followed him around to a shiny black car. Tony held open the door for him before walking around to the driver's seat. Peter pressed his hands between his thighs to stop them from shaking.
“You cold?” Tony took off his coat and draped it across Peter.
“Yeah... cold.”
Tony started the car and started down the road. They were quiet for a while. The air was tense.
“Are you mad at me?”
Peter snorted. He rolled his eyes and glared out the window. Mad was understatement.
“I get the feeling that you're mad.”
“Yes, I'm mad, Tony!” Peter snapped, turning to glared at the man. “I've been working this place for four years. And Georgio... well he's not exactly a good man, but he's a kind one. He tries. And you got the place shot up and now Georgio's probably dead.” He looked again out the window, unable to take the growing anger on Tony's face or the way he gripped with the wheel with white knuckles.
“And it's my fault isn't it?” He sunk into the seat and the guilt were too heavy.
“How could it be your fault?” Tony glanced at him, anger softened by confusion.
Peter watched green lights pass by over head as he thought. “I've been lead to believe you kept coming back to see me. It's my fault you stuck around instead of wherever you were spending your nights before.”
“This isn't your fault, caro.”
“No, it's your fault. You let this happen. You let Georgio die and Paul get hurt and whoever else was dead on the floor back there. All because you couldn't listen when I told you no the first time. I'm not yours you know.”
“I know that. If you were, you wouldn't have been there tonight.”
“Because you knew what was going to happen tonight.”
“Of course I knew.”
“You just let it happen.” He glared, teeth grinding together.
Tony looked guilty, he really did. Peter was surprised. “I was cocky. I didn't imagine that a single one them would be quick enough to pull out a gun let alone hit one of us.”
“But they did.”
“You're not the only one who's mad about tonight, angelo.”
Peter wasn't sure at what point Tony stopped the car or when he had turned in his seat, but now he was leaning in close and the air between them steamed. He turned and looked behind him at the street. This wasn't even his side of town. He turned back to Tony and it was only hotter than before.
“This isn't my apartment.” He swallowed and watched Tony's eyes catch the movement of his throat. They slid back up to his lips before flicking up to his eyes.
“You're not going home tonight.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is.”
He wanted to get angry. He wanted to say that he wasn't Tony's and he couldn't just take him home. But it was so rare to have such an attractive man looking at him like that. Drunk mobsters didn't count. He chalked it up to grief that he didn't pulled away as Tony pressed his mouth against his. It was heart pounding and dangerous and sexy. He held on to Tony's arms and pulled himself in closer to his chest. His fingers were tacky with blood and it made him cringe, but it didn't stop him pressing in close enough to soak up Tony's heat. Tony's hands held his face, keeping him close or maybe keeping him from fleeing. He didn't care. Their lips parted for air, but Tony just moved down to kiss his neck. He gasped, hot kisses setting his nerves on fire. He grabbed Tony and kissed him again.
They stopped and pressed their foreheads together. “Take me home,” Peter said.