Normal things. Married things. The kind of casual intimacy that feels both natural and terrifying.
“Sarah Carson first,” I say as we navigate Midtown traffic. “She seems the most approachable based on her file.”
“You’re sure you want to handle the initial contact yourself?”
“Positive. She’ll trust another woman more than a man in an expensive suit.”
“Fair point.”
The restaurant is busier than I expected for a Tuesday afternoon. Well-dressed professionals fill most of the tables, their conversations mixing into a pleasant hum of success and sophistication. The kind of place where deals get made over wine that costs more than most people’s rent.
Our table is in a corner booth with a view of the entire dining room. I slide in across from Alaric, already mentally planning how I’ll approach Sarah Carson tomorrow.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he observes.
“Am I?”
“You get this little line between your eyebrows when you’re working through a problem.”
I reach up to touch my forehead. “I do not.”
“You do. It’s cute.”
The casual compliment makes heat bloom in my chest.
“Good afternoon.” Our waiter appears with menus and a nervous smile. He’s young, maybe twenty-five, with dark hair and an accent I can’t quite place. “Welcome to Palazzo Bianco.”
“Thank you,” Alaric replies. “We’ll start with the wine list.”
As the waiter pours water into our glasses, I notice his hands shaking slightly. First day nerves, probably. The restaurant industry is brutal, and this place clearly caters to demanding clientele.
“The sea bass is excellent today,” he offers. “Fresh from the Mediterranean this morning.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, giving him an encouraging smile. “What would you recommend for wine?”
“The Barolo pairs beautifully with the fish. Or perhaps the Chianti Classico if you prefer something lighter.”
His English is good but careful, like someone who learned it in school rather than growing up with it. There’s something about his accent that tickles my memory, but I can’t place it.
“We’ll start with appetizers,” Alaric decides. “The antipasto for two.”
Across the restaurant, I spot a familiar figure entering with two companions. Marco waves when he sees us, heading toward a table by the windows. He looks relaxed, laughing at something one of his companions said.
“Business meeting?” I ask Alaric, nodding toward Marco’s table.
“Probably.”
The waiter returns with the wine list, and I study the selections while Alaric takes a call from Klaus Mueller. German flows rapidly from his phone, something about shipping schedules and customs documentation.
While he talks, I let my attention wander around the restaurant. The decor is elegant without being ostentatious. Cream-colored walls, fresh flowers on every table, soft jazz playing just loud enough to create ambiance without drowning out conversation.
A busboy clears tables near the kitchen with efficient movements. The sommelier arranges bottles in the wine display with artistic precision. Everything runs like clockwork.
“Mrs. Moretti?” The waiter is back, pen poised over his order pad. “Have you decided?”
“The salmon, please. Medium rare.”
“Excellent choice. And for you, sir?”
