It was nearing the end of my shift at our family’s pizzeria, and I was wiping down the counter, already dreaming of going home and relaxing. The evening hum of customers chatting over warm pizza and clinking glasses filled the air. But the peace shattered when the door suddenly flew open, slamming so hard that the windows rattled in their frames.
A woman in an elegant coat stormed in, clutching a pizza box like it held classified documents. Her eyes were sharp with fury, and her voice boomed across the restaurant. “Is there a manager here?” she barked, her words slicing through the quiet hum of the pizzeria.