Way ahead of her.
"We get through dinner, we'll make a stop after.Lafayette Cemetery."
“We’ll get through dinner.Stop treating me like a rookie.”
I answer as I navigate the narrow Quarter streets."Youarea rookie.You’ve worked undercover, but not at this level.Tonight, we’re a couple.Tomorrow, you prove you're worth bringing in.Fail the first part, it’s game over.Do not pass go."
She shoots me a loaded look."I know what I'm here to deliver.I’m prepared."
Confidence is good.Overconfidence gets people killed.I just hope she knows the difference.
I find parking on Royal, two doors down from the restaurant.Rare, but tonight the city's cooperating.
The entrance to Café Amelie is easy to miss—just a narrow carriageway between buildings.We step into the courtyard and the Quarter disappears.Tables crammed into the hidden space, string lights dangling low enough to graze your head if you stand too fast.Candles flicker on wrought-iron tables, and vines crawl up brick walls that trap the heat and jasmine-thick air.
Small.Intimate.Exactly what we need.
I picked it because it forces closeness.Because it's the kind of place a man would take a woman he's serious about.
The hostess recognizes me before I say anything."Mr.Rourke."Her eyes flick to Adena, curious but professional."Table for two?"
I lift my chin and follow as she leads us through the narrow space between tables.She stops at a corner table, partially tucked beneath a sprawling vine.Candles already lit.
I take the seat across from her, facing the entrance.The table's small enough that our knees almost touch beneath it.
The server appears within seconds."Evening, Mr.Rourke.What can I get you?"
"Bottle of the Sancerre.Charcuterie board to start."I don't look at Adena for approval.
In Marquez's world, a man who asks permission looks weak.A man who decides shows strength.Every gesture counts.Every interaction is a statement about who holds power.
Once she's gone, Adena picks up her water glass.Her eyes scan the courtyard—casual, like she's just taking in the atmosphere.But I know what she's doing: checking exits, faces, noting who's close enough to overhear.
So far, not a single wrong note.
"Nice place," she says finally.
I eye her, mentally crossing my fingers that she’ll play along.Anyone could be listening."You've said that before."
She doesn’t hesitate."Still true."She sets the glass down."You have good taste."
"In restaurants or in women?"
Her mouth curves."Both, apparently."
The server returns with the wine and pours.When she’s gone, Adena lifts her glass, tilts it toward me."To?"
"Us."
"Us," she echoes, and drinks.
The charcuterie board arrives—meats, cheeses, olives, bread arranged on a wooden plank.The server sets it between us with small plates.
Adena immediately tears off a piece of bread and adds cheese."You look tired."
I am.Three years tired.But I can't say that.
"I'm fine."
