Bound By Blood And Love

BOUND #2

SHYANN

I was in the middle of my afternoon nap when my phone buzzed. I checked the caller. It was Lexie my Filipina friend here.

I texted her earlier after the call between me and my siblings call. I asked her if she has a part time for me. I really need that money.

"Hello?" I asked with a bedroom voice. "Girl it's so sakto that you texted earlier. Madam Uliva needs a waiter. Waiter only don't worry no need to table or dance." She said.

She's working at the bar, I will admit that I almost do that job. But when I'm thingking about my dignity it doesn't feel right.

"Okay, tell Madam that I'll be there in 6pm." I said. I guess its already midnight in the Philippines. I cooked my food and ate before closing my little tiny apartment.

The air outside was crisp, carrying the scent of exhaust fumes mingling with the faint, sweet perfume of jasmine from a nearby balcony. It was a stark contrast to the humid, familiar evenings back home, where the scent of grilled fish and ripe mangoes usually filled the air.

I clutched my small shoulder bag, adjusting the strap over my worn denim jacket. My regular restaurant uniform, a crisp white shirt and black trousers, was tucked away for tomorrow’s morning shift. Tonight, Lexie had said, a simple black top and trousers would suffice. I had nothing stylish, just functional.

The address Lexie gave me led me away from the well-lit, touristy areas I usually frequented. The streets grew narrower, the buildings older, their plaster peeling in places, revealing layers of history and neglect.

Neon signs, bright and garish, began to punctuate the encroaching twilight. This wasn’t the kind of place I usually found myself, even on my most adventurous days.

My stomach tightened with a familiar knot of apprehension, the same feeling I’d had on the plane to Italy, gazing out at the endless stretch of blue, leaving everything I knew behind.

Madam Uliva’s establishment, when I finally spotted it, was announced by a modest, hand-painted sign above a heavy wooden door. “La Notte Stellata” – The Starry Night.

The name sounded poetic, but the facade was anything but. A single, flickering neon sign cast a lurid red glow on the pavement.

I pushed open the door, and a wave of noise and mingled scents – cheap perfume, stale cigarette smoke, and something faintly sweet and boozy – hit me. My initial impression was an assault on my senses.

Inside, the lighting was dim, mostly provided by strategically placed spotlights illuminating a small stage at the far end of the room and an array of bottles behind a long, polished bar.

There were small, round tables clustered together, each with two or three chairs, and a few plush, velvet-covered booths along the walls. The clientele was a mix of older men, some appearing to be businessmen unwinding, others with a slightly rougher, more weathered looks.

A few younger men, too, were scattered among them, nursing drinks and talking loudly. The music, a throbbing Italian pop song, was almost deafening.

My eyes quickly scanned the room, searching for Lexie. She was behind the bar, her normally bright, open face hidden partially by shadow, her movements practiced as she poured a drink, chatting easily with a customer.

She caught my eye and offered a quick, reassuring nod, then gestured towards a woman sitting at one of the booths near the stage.

Madam Uliva. She was a presence. Early fifties, perhaps, with impeccably coiffed dark hair and sharp, assessing eyes that missed nothing. She wore a tailored black dress that shimmered subtly in the dim light, and her fingers, adorned with several rings, tapped a rhythmic pattern on the table.

As I approached, she looked me up and down, a slow, evaluating gaze that made me feel like an object for sale.

“You are Lexie’s friend?” she asked, her voice surprisingly soft, yet edged with authority. Her Italian was crisp, devoid of the regional accent I was used to from my regular workplace.

“Yes, Madam,” I replied, my voice a little reedy over the music. “I’m Shyann Keely Vianzon. Lexie said you needed a waiter.”

A faint smile touched her lips, more of a widening of her mouth than a genuine expression of warmth. “Indeed. We always need good hands. Can you carry a tray? Are you quick? Do you understand what my customers expect?”

“Yes, Madam. I’m a server at another restaurant, so I have experience with trays and customer service,” I answered, trying to sound confident, projecting a professionalism I wasn't entirely feeling in this environment.

“Good. Lexie speaks well of you. She said you are… ‘modest.’ That is a good quality here. Customers like a server who is attentive, but also knows her place. You take orders, you bring drinks, you keep the tables clean. No engaging in long conversations, no sitting with customers. Understand?”

“Understood, Madam.” The words ‘modest’ and ‘knows her place’ grated a little, stirring a defensive spark in me, but I swallowed it down. Natasha’s prom dress. Khalil’s tuition. Mom’s medicine.

“Lexie will show you the ropes,” Madam Uliva said, dismissing me with a flick of her hand. “Report to her. She will tell you what you earn tonight. If you work well, there will be more shifts.”

I walked towards Lexie, feeling the weight of Madam Uliva’s gaze on my back, a subtle prickle on my skin. Lexie handed me a small notepad and a pen. “It’s not so bad, Shyann,” she whispered, her smile a little strained as she handed over a small apron.

“Just keep moving. Don’t pay attention to the men if they get too… familiar. A simple ‘no grazie’ and move on. And don’t take tips directly. Put them in the jar behind the bar. Madam divides them later.”

The first hour was a blur of navigating through jostling bodies, trying to hear orders over the music, and memorizing the locations of various bottles and glasses. It was different from my regular restaurant. Here, the orders were mostly drinks – cocktails, beers, wine.

The customers were louder, more boisterous, some openly appreciative, others frankly leering. I kept my gaze down, my movements efficient, my face a mask of polite neutrality. Each time a customer’s hand lingered too long on my arm or tried to catch my eye with an unsettling intensity, I would pull away smoothly, offering a brief, practiced smile that didn’t reach my eyes.

Lexie had been right. It was just a waiter job, but the atmosphere was tinged with something else, an unspoken expectation that hummed beneath the surface. It was the kind of place where women were observed, assessed, and perhaps sometimes, bought. And I was one of the women. The thought was a bitter pill to swallow, but I focused on the mechanical act of serving, pouring, cleaning.

My feet began to ache within the first two hours. These weren't my comfortable work shoes; they were just my ordinary walking shoes, not built for standing on hard floors for hours on end, constantly moving. My head throbbed from the persistent drone of the music, and my throat was dry from the constant, low-level tension.

Mid-shift, I caught a glimpse of myself in a polished surface behind the bar. My reflection was pale, a thin sheen of sweat on my forehead. My eyes looked tired, but also fiercely determined.

I thought of Natasha’s face on the video call – so young, so full of innocent hope, her smile bright as she talked about the prom, about being like "a real princess."

A prom dress wasn't just a garment; it was a rite of passage, a moment of joy, a symbol of belonging. It was the kind of memory I never had, the kind of simple happiness I wanted for her, even if it meant my own dignity felt slightly chipped away.

I carried a heavy tray laden with empty glasses back to the bar, my muscles screaming in protest. As I passed a booth, I overheard a snippet of conversation in rapid Italian, something about “new girl” and “pretty face.” I forced myself not to react, to keep my stride steady, my expression blank. Just deliver this tray. Just wipe down that table. Just get through the next hour.

Lexie found a moment to lean in closer to me, her voice a low murmur. “You’re doing great, Shyann . Madam seems pleased. Just ignore them. Think of the money.”

The money. Yes. That was the anchor.

When Lexie finally told me I could clock out just after midnight, my body felt like a lead weight. My feet throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that shot up my calves. My head was fuzzy from the noise and the lingering smell of spirits.

But as Lexie counted out the euros into my hand – a surprisingly generous amount for a single night, almost half of what I made in a regular full day at the restaurant – a surge of relief washed over me.

“Madam Uliva said you were very efficient,” Lexie said, her eyes warm with approval as she watched me carefully fold the money and tuck it into a separate, zipper compartment of my wallet. “She wants you to come back Saturday night, if you’re free.”

Saturday night. That was the shift I had already mentally committed to at my main restaurant. But if this paid more…

“I’ll check my schedule,” I replied, trying to sound calm, but inside, my mind was racing with new calculations. This was real money. This was the difference. This was the prom dress.

Walking home in the quiet, empty streets of the city, the earlier apprehensions had been replaced by a deep exhaustion, but also a quiet sense of triumph. The raw, challenging energy of Madam Uliva’s establishment had tested me, pushed at the edges of my comfort zone, but I had endured. I hadn't succumbed to the unwanted attention, hadn't let my guard down. I had simply done the work.

The image of Natasha, twirling in a beautiful gown, flashed in my mind. Her face was radiant, happy. And then, superimposed, my mother’s tired but loving eyes, full of quiet pride. They were worth every aching muscle, every uncomfortable glance, every moment of loneliness.