Small movements—adjusting his napkin, shifting in his seat, checking his phone under the table when he thinks I'm not looking. His wife is too distracted to notice, but I see everything.
Bianca's doing well. She's keeping Nancy engaged with questions about their summer house, playing the perfect girlfriend. She's a natural at this, and I make a mental note to tell her later.
But Patterson's behavior is bothering me.
I'm about to call him on it when my own phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, glance at the screen.
It's a message from Rafe:Patterson just sent a text. Traced it to a Corsetti number. He's trying to warn them about the ultimatum. Looks like he's setting up a call.
I read it twice, let the information settle.
Then I smile.
"Excuse me," I say, standing smoothly. "I need to take this call. Business emergency."
Nancy nods absently. Bianca glances at me, something questioning in her eyes, but I'm already moving.
I head toward the restrooms but veer off at the last second toward the hallway that leads to the kitchen. Patterson's still at the table—I can see him through the archway, phone now openly in his hand, typing frantically.
Calling for help.
Stupid man.
I wait in the shadows of the service corridor, just out of sight. It takes less than two minutes before Patterson stands, mutters something to his wife, and heads in my direction.
He's not coming to find me. He's looking for privacy to make his call.
Even better.
He passes the restrooms, moves toward the exit that leads to the back patio where it's quiet. Where he can betray me without witnesses.
I follow.
The service exit opens onto a narrow hallway that connects to the kitchen loading area. No cameras back here—I made sure of that before I chose this restaurant. The door clicks shut behind Patterson, and he's already lifting his phone to his ear.
"Yeah, it's me," he says, voice low and rushed. "I need to talk to?—"
I grab him by the back of his collar and slam him against the wall. His phone clatters to the ground.
"Mike," I say pleasantly. "Who are you calling?"
"I—I was just?—"
"You were just warning the Corsettis that I'm onto you. That I gave you an ultimatum. That you need their help." I twist the fabric tighter, cutting off his air slightly. "Did I miss anything?"
"Please—"
"I gave you a chance." I keep my voice conversational, calm. "I gave you three days, Mike. Three days to do the right thing. And you immediately betrayed me. Again."
"I'm sorry?—"
"No, you're not.” I release his collar, and he slumps against the wall.
There's a door to my left—a storage closet for linens and cleaning supplies. I shove it open with one hand, grab Patterson with the other, and throw him inside.
He stumbles, crashes into a shelf. Bottles of industrial cleaner clatter to the floor.
"Please, I can explain?—"
