Page 19 of The Devil of Downtown

“Brace yourself. He gets louder after noon.”

I tilt my head. “Which one is he?”

“Frank,” Dominic says dryly. “My father’s favorite headache. Thinks charm is a substitute for judgment.”

“Oh dear,” I whisper. “So this is his charming phase, or his unbearable one?”

Dominic’s mouth quirks. “They operate as one.”

I stick close to Dominic as we walk, acutely aware of how alien this setting still seems, how easy it would be to look out of place if I drifted. So far, Dominic has been a blessing. Someone I can hide behind.

Ahead, Stan is in survival mode, hands carving the air as he outlines something to Dane. Dane listens with that lethal calm of his, like he’s already several moves ahead and doesn’t need to rush anyone to catch up.

Inside, the elevator doors slide shut, and we rise fast, my ears popping faintly as the numbers climb. Frank fills the space with a story about a lunch in Monaco that appears to have no ending,complete with a yacht flex, a lengthy explanation of why proper lunches used to last four hours, and the firm belief that nothing important should ever be rushed—especially progress.

Dominic leans in halfway through, covering his mouth with his hand.

“He tells this every time,” he says, voice low. “The location changes. The ego doesn’t.”

When the doors open, the private dining suite unfolds in light and glass, an uninterrupted view of London spanning wide behind it. For a split second, my feet itch to carry me straight to the windows and gawp. I smooth my expression and remind myself to pick my jaw up off the ground.

We’re guided to a long table near the windows. I take the first open seat without hesitation. Dominic takes the one beside me like this was always the plan.

Across from us, Dane removes his jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair, settling between Stan and Frank. He looks entirely in control. Apart from the faint dark circles under his eyes, you’d never guess he crossed an ocean overnight or slept in fragments on a private jet.

Gilded menus are set down in front of us, the kind that assume you know what you’re doing. I skim mine once, then again more carefully.

I angle it toward Dominic.

“Be honest,” I whisper. “Is this one food or a practical joke?”

He glances over, scans the line, and lets out a quiet laugh.

“Avoid it. Tiny portion. Aggressive garnish.”

I wince. “You lost me at tiny portion.”

He smiles. “What are you thinking instead?”

“Something that won’t humiliate me.”

“Smart.” He taps the page. “Middle of the menu. That’s where they hide the things people actually finish.”

Frank seizes the wine list the way a drowning man notices a rope. Stan waves the server over with broad enthusiasm, ordering wine like he’s panic-buying toilet paper. Frank nods his approval and takes charge of the bottle when it arrives, topping up his glass with the focus of a man convinced answers live somewhere near the bottom.

Dane doesn’t touch his.

“So,” Stan says, settling back, glass in hand, “tell me what this looks like from your side.”

“I already have,” Dane replies. “This morning.”

Stan grins. “You painted a bleak picture.”

“A realistic one.”

Dominic shifts slightly. “He’s not exaggerating. We’ve been slow to move.”

Frank waves it off. “You’re young. You don’t remember the last time everyone wrote us off.”