Chapter 17: With the First Guest This Strong, How Can the Rest Take Off?

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Mazhaodi didn’t lie; anyone who understands pre-exam cramming knows the drill—studying a whole semester’s worth of material only in the few days before the test, memorizing it all, then forgetting it right after. Although this guidebook was thick and lacked highlighted key points, he had managed to memorize most of it.

To be safe, he had even spent a dollar’s worth of asset points to store the content in the system’s record board, so he could look it up if needed.

The supervisor casually asked him a few questions to confirm he wasn’t lying, then led him straight into the changing room. He pulled out a waiter’s suit that fit Mazhaodi’s size perfectly and told him to change.

To be honest, this was Mazhaodi’s first time wearing a suit.

“Hmm... not bad, not bad,” he muttered.

The supervisor examined Mazhaodi, who stood tall and slender in the crisp suit, with a refined face and handsome features. Overall, he was acceptable—except for the lingering coldness and slyness in his eyes, mixed with a hint of fierce wildness.

“But you’re working the day shift, not the night shift. This face is a bit too fierce for that.”

Mazhaodi heard this and tried to smile, which only made his aura more subtle, like a beast restrained within the suit, grinning menacingly at its prey. If he wore a proper Italian suit, most people would probably mistake him for an influential underworld boss.

“...Have you considered joining any gangs? I think your face fits right in.”

The supervisor joked as he turned and left. Moments later, he returned holding a pair of gold-rimmed, non-prescription glasses.

“Put these on. Just don’t lose them in a customer’s food or on them during work.”

Mazhaodi took the glasses and wore them. The coldness and wildness in his face softened immediately, replaced by a touch of scholarly elegance.

“That looks much better now.”

The supervisor then guided him through several practice runs of greeting customers, taking orders, serving dishes, and clearing tables. Mazhaodi’s demeanor and movements met the standards; he rarely missed any etiquette details, and answered questions accurately. Or rather, most of his mistakes were glossed over by his composed demeanor and striking face.

“Not bad, not bad. You’re learning fast. In that case, you can start your shift at ten.”

Mazhaodi watched the supervisor yawn and disappear, probably going back to catch up on sleep after a busy night shift. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have stayed up this late.

He had already eaten breakfast and didn’t want more, so he took off his glasses and bought a newspaper from a newsstand, hoping to see if anything major had happened in Gotham.

“Two armed robbery and murder cases. Hmph, Gotham sure has its fair share of trouble; a group of biker gangs got revenge on a road-rage driver in a dump truck—unlucky, but no sympathy here; several pharmaceutical company staff mysteriously frozen solid—clearly the work of Mr. Freeze; a few members of the Maroni gang had every bone broken and were hospitalized; the criminal evidence was handed over to the Gotham Police Department—this is what you get for running with the wrong crowd...”

Wait a minute? Every bone broken?

Mazhaodi flipped back to that page and studied the grim condition of those gang members carefully.

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Their limbs were shattered, ribs broken, and they were suspected culprits in two armed robbery and murder cases.

Well done, he thought silently. Although these were psychopathic acts, at least they were doing something “good.”

However, the Maroni family was a semi-vassal of the Falcone family, which was still the top gang in Gotham. No wonder the supervisor had stayed up all night—there must have been many big shots visiting yesterday.

But what did all this have to do with me, an ordinary restaurant waiter?

He shrugged and continued scanning the paper. The rest was mostly reports of a dozen robbers having their jaws smashed and sent to the hospital, a few drug dealers tied up and dumped outside the Gotham police station. Leaving aside some major incidents that wouldn’t be reported...

Yesterday was actually a pretty calm day in Gotham.

“Huh?”

Just as Mazhaodi folded the newspaper, he noticed several colleagues, also in suits, standing behind him, eying the news with a hint of schadenfreude.

“Y-you guys... hello?”

“Hi, I’m Santos. Claude Santos.”

“Lloyd Rick.”

“I’m Bridget Castro.”

“Hello, I’m Mazhaodi—would you like to see the paper?”

“Thanks.”

Santos took the newspaper and read carefully. As Mazhaodi stood, he realized they were looking at the news about the Maroni gang members being taken to the police station, and something clicked.

Makes sense, right? Drake had said before that Donald had powerful backing. Considering what Donald did while on the phone, it was impossible not to have ties to Gotham’s biggest crime family, the Falcones.

But he hadn’t expected that even the restaurant waitstaff had family connections—far deeper than he imagined.

“Maroni family, huh,” Santos sneered first.

Rick shook his head. “What a disgrace, getting tossed into Gotham PD.”

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Castro asked, “Are we just going to watch? What about the Don’s face?”

“Maroni’s honor doesn’t extend to the Don. Besides, it’s one thing to duel with lions, tigers, or men—there’s always a chance to win. But what about dueling with ghosts, nightmares, or fears?”

Santos folded the paper, shaking his head. “None of our business. We’re just humble waiters. Today’s paper is quite entertaining, though.”

He stood up, smiling playfully. “Mazhaodi, you really look like a mob boss. Could you be from the Falcone family by any chance?”

“No, no, I’m not in any gang. Just happen to have a fierce look,” Mazhaodi quickly waved his hands, then put on his gold-rimmed glasses. “See? Much better now.”

The three exchanged subtle expressions. Santos’s smile grew even brighter. “Haha, just kidding. Don’t take it personally.”

Rick and Castro furtively examined Mazhaodi’s wrists and neck, confirming he had no tattoos from their families.

Donald really should have warned the supervisor in advance—he almost mistook him for one of their own.

What the four didn’t know was that the family’s situation yesterday was even more urgent than the papers revealed. The supervisor and Donald had stayed up all night and had already forgotten this minor matter.

“Shift time’s almost here. The head chef’s arrived too. Let’s get ready together, shall we?”

“Sure, I just got here. Perfect chance to learn from you all.”

They didn’t wait long before a sharply dressed man walked into the restaurant.

Mazhaodi stayed still, wanting to see how the veteran employees handled it, but the three and their colleagues stiffened for a moment before pushing him out.

“?”

“Good day. Do you have a reservation?”

“One.”

“Your name?”

“Dent. Harvey Dent.”