The shift got off to a rough start. The exhaust fan in the country golf club kitchen broke down, filling the air with thick fried food smells that blended awkwardly with the guests’ expensive perfumes. Agnia adjusted the stiff collar of her uniform shirt, which was mercilessly rubbing her neck, and picked up the heavy oak tray.
It was chilly out on the veranda reserved for special guests. Three people sat by the panoramic window. Two men in custom-tailored suits lazily flipped through the menu. The third — Denis, the club’s local translator — perched on the edge of his chair, gazing at them obsequiously.
Agnia approached the table, making sure the soles of her work shoes didn’t squeak on the porcelain tiles.
“Good afternoon. Are you ready to order?” she asked in a steady voice.
Stefano, a man with neatly slicked-back silver hair, didn’t even look up. He jabbed a finger at the menu and rattled off something quickly.
“Three double espressos, and water. Still, room temperature,” Denis translated, in the tone of someone who thinks he owns at least part of the place. “And be quick — we’re waiting for the investor.”
Agnia nodded and turned around. She had barely taken two steps when a remark in pure Tuscan dialect drifted to her back:
“How do these people even live in this gloom? Look at her, Luigi. No spark in her eyes, no posture. Robots serving coffee.”
“Leave the girl alone, Stefano. At least they cost next to nothing,” the second Italian chuckled, adjusting his cufflinks. “Tomorrow we’ll get the advance for the equipment shipment, and you’ll never have to see these grim faces again.”
Agnia froze for a split second, but immediately forced herself to keep moving.
She understood every word. This language was more than just a jumble of foreign sounds to her — it was a ticket to the past. Her father, Lorenzo, had come to this city twenty-five years ago, invited by a construction company to restore historic building facades. Here he met her mother. At home, they always spoke both languages, cooked risotto on weekends, and her dad would hilariously mangle Russian proverbs.
Then came a hard November. Her parents were returning from their dacha when they had a car accident on an icy road. A truck veered into their lane, and both died before the ambulance arrived. Agnia was just nine. She had no grandparents left behind, and her father’s Italian relatives had vanished in the tangle of old addresses. And so, the sheltered little girl ended up in an orphanage.
The only thing she took with her was her father’s thick Italian-Russian dictionary. Standing out wasn’t welcome at the orphanage. She was often picked on for her unusual name and dark skin. Agnia learned how to become invisible. But in the evenings, hidden under a scratchy blanket, she read the dictionary, mouthing words so she wouldn’t forget her father’s voice.
Now she was twenty-three. She rented a tiny studio apartment with a leaking faucet, worked twelve-hour shifts, and saved every penny for her education.
Returning to the table with the tray, she carefully set down the cups. The Italians kept discussing their business, not caring that the waitress was right there.
“The main thing is that Denis doesn’t mess up translating item five. Our local contractor can’t find out that the deposit is non-refundable under any circumstances,” Luigi said, taking the tiniest sip of coffee and grimacing. “Bitter water.”
“Don’t worry. The old man is used to trusting people, and Denis will get his ten percent. As soon as the money hits the company account in Milan, we file for bankruptcy. Legally, we’re untouchable,” Stefano replied.
Agniya felt her insides tighten. She knew who they were waiting for. Konstantin Eduardovich, the owner of the largest construction trust in the region, was a regular guest at the golf club. A strict, but fair man. A month ago, when Agniya accidentally dropped a sauce dish onto his jacket, he simply joked about it instead of making a scene—and left a generous tip. A year ago, he fully paid for the chef’s medical recovery after an illness.
And now these slick gentlemen were planning to rip him off.
She approached Vadim, the manager, who was standing by the register, endlessly checking receipts.
“Vadim, I need to talk to you. Those foreigners at table seven… they’re planning to trick Konstantin Eduardovich. They’re discussing a fake contract, and the company is preparing for bankruptcy.”
The manager slowly looked up at her. His eyes showed clear boredom.
“Agniya, are you out of your mind? Do you even understand Italian? Or have you watched too many mafia shows? Your job is to clear used dishes on time. Konstantin Eduardovich will be here with his lawyers—they’ll handle it. If you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, you’ll be out of here without any pay. And I’ll make sure you can’t even get hired to mop floors anywhere. Get back to work.”
Agniya bit her lip and stepped away. Vadim was right: who would believe an uneducated waitress?
Half an hour later, Konstantin Eduardovich entered the veranda. Tall, with gray at his temples, he confidently shook hands with the foreigners and sat at the table. Denis quickly opened a thick leather folder full of documents.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Let’s get down to business. I don’t have much time,” the businessman said.
Agniya came by to refill the water. The foreigners spoke softly, spreading wide smiles. Denis translated, carefully choosing his words.
“Our partners assure us that the equipment is already stored in Genoa. We’re ready to deliver it the day after the contract is signed and the advance is paid,” the interpreter chirped.
Konstantin Eduardovich carefully reviewed the Russian version of the contract.
“Denis, I’m a bit concerned about item five. The guarantee terms seem vague. And why is the advance payment going to a subcontractor’s account?”
Denis swallowed almost imperceptibly, but managed to keep his face steady.
“That’s due to new tax regulations in Italy, Konstantin Eduardovich. Standard optimization. As for the guarantees—they’re one hundred percent, the Italian side is taking on all the risks.”
Luigi leaned back in his chair, looked at his partner and, with a slight smirk, said in his native language:
“Sign it, old man, and it’s a done deal. Tomorrow morning, that money will be far away, and we’ll be relaxing on a yacht.”
Naturally, Denis didn’t translate that. He just politely added:
— Our partners are expressing hope for a long-term collaboration.
Konstantin Eduardovich nodded. He pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket, took off the cap, and slid the papers toward himself.
Agniya’s mind raced through the manager’s words about being fired. She thought about her unpaid rent. Then, she remembered how her father used to tell her never to walk past someone else’s trouble.
She stepped up to the table, forgetting all about the rules of subordination.
— Konstantin Eduardovich, don’t sign that, — Agniya’s voice rang out firmly, rising over the quiet music playing on the veranda.
The pen froze over the papers. The businessman raised his eyebrows in surprise. Denis jumped in his seat.
— Miss, what do you think you’re doing?! — the translator hissed, his face flushing. — Get out of here! Vadim! Call the manager!
Stefano and Luigi exchanged glances, not understanding what was happening. Agniya looked only at Konstantin Eduardovich.
— In the fifth clause of the original, it says that the advance is non-refundable under any circumstances. They plan to start bankruptcy proceedings for their company tomorrow. They’re just waiting for your money to hit their account.
Instantly, the buzz of voices on the veranda fell silent.
— What does this mean, Denis? — the businessman’s voice turned cold and heavy.
— Konstantin Eduardovich, this is a provocation! She’s out of her mind! She’s just a waitress—how could she know the language?! — the translator stammered, stepping back.
Stefano, sensing from the tone that the deal was falling through, frowned.
— Che cosa sta dicendo questa cameriera? Cacciatela via! — he barked. (What is this waitress saying? Get her out of here!)
Agniya turned toward him. All the exhaustion from years of hard work, all the resentment from condescending looks, poured out in a single phrase.
— Questa cameriera vi ha ascoltato per due ore. Siete solo dei truffatori. — she said with perfect pronunciation. (This waitress has listened to you for two hours. You are simply con artists).
The Italians froze. Luigi slowly lowered his hands under the table. Their faces showed total bewilderment, which quickly turned to fear.
Konstantin Eduardovich recapped his pen and carefully put it back in his pocket. He gathered the documents from the table and placed them in a folder.
— Here’s how it’s going to be, gentlemen, — he said, not raising his voice. — My security team is going to check out your Italian company right now. If the young woman’s words are confirmed, not only will you not get the advance, you won’t be leaving the country. And as for you, Denis, we’ll have a separate conversation.
The translator turned pale. Before the scene was even over, Stefano threw a crumpled napkin onto the table. The foreigners hurried to the exit, nearly knocking over the manager as he rushed toward them. Denis, his head down, followed after them.
— Agniya! What have you done?! You’re fired! This instant! — Vadim yelled, running up to the table.
The young woman quietly began untying her apron knot. Her hands trembled slightly from all the emotion she’d just gone through.
— Wait, Vadim, — interrupted Konstantin Eduardovich. — It’s true, she doesn’t work here anymore. Because starting tomorrow, she’ll be working in my main office.
He turned to Agniya and gestured toward the chair.
— Take a seat. What’s your name? How did you get such a flawless Tuscan accent?
She sat on the edge of the chair and started to talk. She told him about her father, about that terrible accident on the road, about the dictionary and the boarding school. Konstantin Eduardovich listened to her attentively.
“Tomorrow morning, I’ll expect you in the procurement department. You’ll be an assistant consultant. I can’t promise you the moon, you’ll start off with paperwork. You’ll study at the same time—I’ll help you get into the evening program. I need honest people like you around me.”
Two years passed.
Agniya sat at her desk in a spacious office. She was already in her third year at university and was now working full-time in the international department. No one in the office looked down on her anymore—she had proven herself by working late into the night with her books.
There was a knock at the door. Konstantin Eduardovich’s secretary peeked in.
“Agniya, the boss wants to see you.”
The businessman was sitting behind his massive desk. In front of him was a thick yellow envelope with foreign stamps.
“Come in, Agniya. I have something for you. Do you remember telling me how you lost contact with your father’s family? My security team does more than just check for fraud; we made a few inquiries in Italian towns.”
He slid the envelope toward her. Carefully, Agniya tore open the edge. Inside, she found a letter and a photograph. In the photo, taken in the courtyard of a small stone house, there was an elderly couple. The man looked incredibly like her father.
“This is your uncle, Marco. He and his wife live near Florence. It turns out they tried to find you, they sent requests, but after your time at the boarding school, your trail was lost,” Konstantin Eduardovich explained gently.
Attached to the photo was a note written in large, uneven letters: “Ti abbiamo cercato per tanto tempo. Torna a casa, piccola nostra.” (We’ve been searching for you for so long. Come home, our little one.)
Agniya pressed the photograph to her chest and took a deep breath. For the first time in many years, the loneliness didn’t feel so heavy—she finally felt she was no longer alone in this big world.