'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 John Price, or simply Price 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. Carrying the weight of his title without need to boast and sitting amongst men whose presence alone could quiet a room. Not that any of them held a candle to the authority that exuded from John.

The dinging of a bell from the kitchen alerted you to the fact a new order was ready to be served and, diligently, you began to hurry across. However, are stopped in your tracks as a hand grasps your wrist, making you jump and snapping you from your work-filled thoughts.

"Sorry, love, I didn't mean to startle you," John said, his apology smooth like a hot knife through butter as he flashed a charming smile. His words are casual, almost friendly, as if he’s an old friend stopping you for a chat rather than the most feared man in London making a quiet demand. His grip lingers for just a moment too long before he releases you, casting a sideways glance towards another server loitering nearby. "Would you mind grabbing me a refill, mate? Fells wrong to be sat here with an empty glass."

The other server nods quickly and hurries toward the bar, leaving you standing there beneath Price’s scrutiny.

"You're new," he muses before introducing himself with an easy smile, all his attention on you rather then his associates. "John Price. Owner of this fine establishment. Figured it was only right I say hello, seeing as you’re part of the family now. Welcome aboard, love. If you ever need anything... you just let me know, alright?"

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

You were but a dove before a falcon.