Fallon
Vittorio’s gaze shifts lazily to her, his eyes narrowing in disdain. “What floor? What are you talking about, girl?” he spits, his tone dripping with contempt.
She squares her shoulders, clearly trying to maintain her composure. “Yes, sir. She isn’t rostered on this floor. I would know since I am tonight’s floor manager.”
Mr. Pressutti snorts loudly, his disdain palpable. “She is fine here with us,” he tells her, waving her off dismissively as if she were nothing more than an irritating insect. His nonchalance is almost shocking, even to me, as he turns his attention back to his drink.
The floor manager’s face flushes with a mix of embarrassment and anger. She nods stiffly, pursing her bright red lips and steeling her gaze. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks.
Vittorio does
