'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.

But, then you fall.

The strap of a handbag, which you hadn't seen for the dirty plates your were focusing on balancing, had caught your foot. The world tilted as gasps rose into the air, cutlery clattering across the polished marble floors and plates shattering upon impact, their shards skidding along the floor.

You barely had time to feel the rush of embarrassment, nor check if you were hurt at all, before large hands were helping you upright. Their grip on you arms firm, yet gentle.

Before you stood John MacTavish, better known as Soap to those who knew of him. 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; the black sleeves of his dress-shirt rolled up to reveal the inked forearms. Until the clattering of silverware and smashing plates earned his attention.

His piercing gaze flickered over you once before casting down to the floor where he found the culprit of the incident - the bag strap. While his expression darkened, his boyish grin remained as he looked to the owner of the bag, a snooty looking lady who was hastily trying to tug the designer bag back under the table.

"Tha' was careless of yeh," He said, a dangerous undertone hiding within the gentle seeming scolding. "Pay more attention teh your belongings next time, aye? Mah staff could have been seriously hurt."

The snooty woman stiffened at John's words, turning pale, nodding while hastily mumbling apologies to both John and yourself.

He watched the woman for a moment longer before turning his attention back to you, guiding you away front he mess as other staff rushed to clean up after you. Once to you side, Soap released his hold on your arms.

"Yeh must be our new starter, pleasure to meet yeh. Am John, John MacTavish. But, feel free teh call me Soap, everybody else does," He introduced himself with a charming grin, taking your hand and placing a chaste kiss to the back of it. "Am the gaffer o' this fine establishment."

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

A rabbit had entered the fox's den.