I cut in before Allegra can start interrogating him like one of her chess pieces. “Let’s go.”
Julian follows me down the hall, hands in his pockets, looking like he owns the place while knowing damn well he doesn’t. I stop in front of the corner suite, not bothering to open the door.
“This is where you’ll be staying,” I say. “Leave your things by the door. You’re not here to nest.”
His gaze scans the hallway as he sets down his briefcase, again, that flicker of surprise he tries to bury. Looking at him, I can tell he’s used to shitty motel carpet and broken vending machines, not heated marble floors and blackout curtains imported from Milan.
He reaches for the doorknob, but before he can step inside, I lean my palm against the door, blocking him. “You’ll be joining me for dinner. We have more to discuss.”
“And if I say no?” he asks, arms crossed.
I meet his eyes, flat and cold.
His jaw tightens for half a second before giving a reluctant nod.
“Fine,” he mutters.
I say nothing, turning to walk away as he follows me down the hall.
The sun hangs low behind the clouds; the sky overcast in that moody, cinematic way I’ve always liked. This is the kind of weather that makes people uneasy, which is good. Iwanthim a little uneasy.
We take our seats on opposite ends of the long stone table outside the east veranda, far from staff chatter, the house noise, or the possibility of wandering eyes. Privacy is the point. It always is.
Julian hesitates before sitting, like he’s expecting the chair to explode or the wine to be poisoned. Though, I can’t say I blame him. I might’ve done worse if I was in his position.
The table is already set with white linen, crystal glasses, silver flatware that gleams in the gray light. My chefs emerge through the French doors, efficient and silent, like well-trained ghosts. One pours two glasses of Brunello di Montalcino. Another sets down antipasto: cured meats, burrata, olives soaked in garlic and oil.
Julian stares at the spread for a second too long.
“Something wrong?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.
“I just wasn’t expecting… all this. This wine must cost a fortune.”
“What were you expecting?” I ask, my lips curving. “A sandwich and a lie detector?”
He smirks, but his posture stays stiff. He’s playing calm, collected. But I see the way his eyes flick around the terrace, tracking exits. Measuring distance. Always calculating in that head of his.
“I don’t really eat with people who threaten to kill me,” he says.
I break a slice of prosciutto with my fork. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be bleeding out before the appetizer.”
He picks up a fork, slowly. “That’s reassuring.”
I tilt my head, watching him. His suit jacket doesn’t fit right. It’s a cheap cut, loose at the shoulders. His hair’s tidy but not styled. Everything about him says washed-up detective trying to pass for someone important. He’s muscular, though. Same build as me. Keeps in shape. That says something.
“I want to know who gave you the intel,” I say.
He blinks. “Thought we were doing pleasantries.”
“This is me being pleasant.”
He exhales and sets his fork down. “I told you, I’m a P.I. People pay me to dig. This city’s a goldmine if you know where to look.”
“You’re good at avoiding direct answers.”
“You’regood at asking loaded questions.”
Touché.
