The Mafia's Rose Married The CEO

"What do you mean she's not here?!" Qing Zihao snarled at the person behind the counter. It was only eight in the evening and there were still a lot of patrons inside the diner. 

"It's her day off," answered the cashier cooly. The reason why this person could act like this with him because he was the owner. Another thing was that he was already sixty years old. 

"Call her," Qing Zihao said. "Tell her to come to work tonight."

"Mr. Qing," said the old man, "give the girl some rest. She had a long week. Ever since she arrived here she had been struggling to earn her keep."

Qing Zihao's head c.o.c.ked to the side. "You mean she lives here? Like, upstairs? In the room above?"

The owner sighed, defeatedly. "Yes, she is upstairs." Then in an alarmed manner. "I already had her work this morning, please let the poor girl rest."

Qing Zihao managed a smile to his lips. "Tell her I'm waiting for her here."

He and his men casually slid on the booth that they had been using the night before. "Don't worry, we'll order," he said and nodded at the menu in his men's hands. "Go ahead, have your fill."

They were more than enthusiastic to try the other flavors of the pizzas. Seeing that he was not going to leave, from the corner of his eyes, Qing Zihao saw that the owner gestured for someone to go upstairs.

**

She had just gotten back to bed from her afternoon run to the grocery store when there was a knock on the wooden door. She immediately got off the bed and opened it. "What is it?" she asked with a hard accent—not that she was expecting to know that she would understand what the owner was about to say.

"Mr. Qing is here," said the woman owner in the language that she understood.

Even though she didn't know who exactly this Mr. Qing was, she already have an idea who it would be. "What does he want?" 

"He wants to see you," the old woman glared at her, irritated that she had to come all the way up here just to call her. "Get down. Now."

She huffed and did not even bother putting on more decent clothes. She was already wearing house clothes—clothes that she had been alternating for the past two weeks that she was here.

It was a pair of old shorts and a faded yellow t-shirt. She took her sweet time walking down the stairs while tying her hair in a ponytail.

"Huh," she muttered under her breath when she saw where he was sitting at. It was good that she did not bother to look nice. Who was she to him anyway?

She rounded the counter and got looks from the other male customers because of her exposed legs. She crossed her arms over her chest and pulled a smile to her lips. "How can I help you, Mr. I Don't Remember My Name?" she asked in the language that only the two of them could understand.

He smirked without looking at her. "I do know my name."

"You seem to forgot last night."

"I remember it perfectly fine. Do you know my name?"

"No," she shook her head. "Not really, and I have no intention of finding out."

He barked laughter at this. "Good. Then what you should do is follow me."

It was a wonder to her how he knew how to speak it and so fluently. He did not look like someone special. Sure, his looks were past average and he was tall. Based from last night's events, she got the idea that he was someone important here.

"Why aren't you serving my table?" he asked, his eyes still trained on the menu. Nothing in there caught his eye. In his young age, he had been overseas and tasted a lot of good delicacies. He honestly felt like he was really a fifty year old man stuck in this body, thinking that there was nothing else that would satisfy him in this world anymore.

In her most casual tone, she replied, "It's my day off. Don't this country believe in such a thing?"

"It does," he nodded. "But I want you to serve my table tonight."

She turned to the owners who were only watching the exchange with a grim look on their faces. "Is that so? Then I guess it does not believe in choices." She forced a smile. "What can I get you?"

He gestured to his men. "They were the ones with the appetite, not me."

His men gladly ordered, rubbing their stomachs in anticipation of what they were about to eat. When the girl left, one of his men leaned forward—he would be the one called Clown in the future. "What's your plan with her, boss?"

Qing Zihao shook his head. "I don't know," he shrugged a shoulder. 

"Do you like her?" he teased.

Suddenly, his walls were up. "I came here so I could torment her. Not because I want to see her face."

Clown gave him a knowing smile but no longer teased him. Qing Zihao looked around. This place could use some work, he thought in his head.

A simple repaint could make this place livelier and they should install a new exhaust system so it wouldn't be too hot. The frames of the windows should be changed too. He was thinking about what else could be improved with the place when the girl finally went back, a few beads of sweat formed on her forehead.

She was already wearing an apron and was struggling to carry the two huge pizza trays. With a blow of a breath, she successfully placed it in the middle of the table. She returned with a two pitchers of juice.

"Anything else?" she asked, breathing hard.

"Yeah," Qing Zihao said. "You got a name?"

The woman smiled at him and walked away, shaking her head.