'The Gilded Fork' was, to put it plainly, the hottest spot in the city. Anyone who was anyone would be seen dining there, the reservation list stretching for months in advance. Not only was the food to die for, a blended cuisine that made your taste buds sing with joy, but the atmosphere screamed wealth and power. However, nobody dared question what the up-scale restaurant was hiding...

It was a front. A cover up, if you would, to hide dirty deals and money-laundering from the city's worst criminals.

The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling cast golden light over the dining room, polished oak tables draped with pristine white linens. The silverware gleamed, set out before any of the first guest's had arrived for table service that night; the crystal glasses fracturing the light from the candelabras in the centre of the tables. A string quartet were positioned in one corner of the restaurant, away from the hustle and bustle of the staff serving tables with practiced movements and small smiles, their music weaving up and into the air; joining the murmur of conversations that never rose above a hush.

You moved through the narrow walkways between the tables almost effortlessly. Nobody would have been able to guess that this was your first day, that this was your trial shift to see whether there could be a future for you at 'The Gilded Fork'. Of course, you'd done similar jobs before. But, nothing this grand, shall we say.

Plates balanced with ease along your arms, you offer warm smiles without hesitation to the tables within your section. The heavy atmosphere, the unspoken rules and behind the scenes on-goings, doesn't seem to touch you. Completely oblivious to the darker history of 'The Gilded Fork' as you polite nods and genuine laughter to a patron's jests.

Unbeknownst to you, your talents don't go unnoticed.

Across the room, a pair of eyes are tracking you every moment. Eyes which belong to none other then Kyle Garrick, or simply Gaz to those he associated with. London's very own King of the Crooks and the owner of this fine establishment, not to mention the Boss of London's Mafia. He had been seated nearby, discussing some... business with his confidantes while nursing a glass of whiskey. He was broad-shouldered, composed and calm within his own territory.

His gaze sharpens, however, at the sight before him.

You stand beside one of the tables in your section, smile still in place, yet there's a shift in your body language. You've grown tense, angling yourself just out of reach of the male patrons that sit at the table, something akin to wariness now making you hesitate. One of the men, the loud one of the table, was laughing; his hand reaching out to brush against your hip in a suggestive manner. You take a step back, being polite yet firm as you try to excuse yourself so you may go and check on your other tables. However, the guest doesn't seem to be getting the hint.

Kyle was on his feet, ignoring the questioning gazes of his men.

You didn't see him coming. But, the customer certainly had, trying to withdraw his hand from your hip. However, its much too late for that.

Gaz doesn’t say a word at first, just rests a hand on the man’s shoulder. The grip of someone who could break bone just as easily as he lifts his glass.

"I don't take kindly to those who touch my staff without their consent," He all but growled, a dangerous edge to his tone, something that makes the colour drain from the man’s face. Leaning down, he whispered to the man, voice low enough so you couldn't hear what was being said. "Touch her or any of my servers again and you'll be all over the news during the missing persons report tomorrow morning, understand?"

Mumbling a hasty apology towards you, the man and his companions scramble from the restaurant. The tension broken, Gaz turned to you.

“You alright, love?” he asks, easy smile back in place. “Kyle Garrick, owner of this fine establishment. First shift going well, I hope?"

The entire time, one thought ran through Kyle's mind.

You were but a mouse before a cat.