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He tips his head an inch toward the woman. "Larissa."

"Larissa." I take her hand. "You have my sympathies. He's my brother and I still don't enjoy him."

She smiles. Beside me, Manon has already put on the bright, easy face she wears for strangers. Standing, she greets Larissa, and the two of them start a conversation. Constantine pulls out the chair at my side and sits without being asked.

“Be my guest I suppose,” I say with a sigh. The women follow suit.

Now there are two more people I’d like to kill. Or maybe just my baby brother. I’d settle for mere strangling in his case.

He looks at me, then at my place setting, where my fork is lying crooked across the plate, half off the edge. He knows exactly what that means because I’m the type to go to someone’s house and straighten their paintings or reposition decorative items on surfaces. My fork looks like any other fork and like any normal person would leave it on a plate. But he is fully aware that’s not like me at all.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks, but it’s not really a question.

"Nothing."

He stares at that damn fork again but says nothing else. He knows I’ll spill the beans when I’m good and ready.

And I am.

"Not so she hears it," I say, keeping my voice under the women's conversation. Manon is turned to Larissa, laughing at something, oblivious. Good.

He nods and waits.

"The big one behind her," I say, quieter still. "He followed her to the bathroom, put his hand on her, and told her to go and suck his dick or he'd find her and kill her."

Constantine doesn't turn to see. He takes a slow drink.

"And … she's made you promise not to touch him," he says.

"I promised her I won’t do anything here, especially not in front of these people." I straighten the fork at last, line it up perfectly with the plate, and it helps about as much as you'd expect. "Yes."

I put my elbow on the table and inch closer to him. The women are fully engaged in their conversation about handling muscle pain after workouts. Quietly, I tell him what I want. It’s pretty straightforward. Constantine listens, blank-faced, and when I sit back he gives me a tiny nod.

Across the table, Manon’s gaze flicks to me. I pick up my glass and smile at her, certain that I’m looking every inch the gentleman.

Constantine gets to his feet and rests his hand on Larissa's shoulder. I must say that in this very moment, he’s almost looking like pleasant company. "Manon," he says, inclining his head. "A pleasure. Truly. You're wasted on him."

"So everyone keeps telling me," she says.

"Larissa, my sympathies," I tell the woman as I stand and take her hand. "Call me if he becomes unbearable. I keep references."

They leave, Constantine steering Larissa away with his hand at her back.

Behind Manon, the loud son of a bitch's table is breaking up, too. I watch over her shoulder without letting my gaze land on him. He drops his card on the table when he stands, and they're all in the warm, delighted state of men who've had a good night and expect the world to keep arranging itself for their pleasure. He walks out without so much as glancing at my wife. He's already forgotten she exists.

"Do you want to go?" Manon asks.

"Not yet. Stay and have another drink. You've had an unpleasant evening and you've earned it. Besides, I like sitting here with you."

I order another bottle of the red she likes, and then dessert. Slowly, the stiffness leaves her shoulders. Soon she's telling me a genuinely vicious story about a consultant she can't stand, and I'm laughing because it's so real. The way she relates it is pure Manon. The restaurant empties around us while somewhere away from here, my brother makes a phone call. I don't spare it another thought, because I trust things are being handled.

When she's finished her wine, we go out to the car. It's nice and peaceful, and she's relaxed and drowsy from the drink, her head tipped back against the seat, her shoes already off. I tell Daniel to take the long way home, down along the water. Manon doesn’t question that. She watches the city slide past the window with her hand in mine on the seat between us, and I'd happily live inside this moment for as long as possible.

We come around the bend where the road runs closest to the marina, where the yachts sit lit up in a long white row against the black water, and that's when one of them explodes.

I hear it before I see it fully—a low, heavy thud in my chest as the car rattles. Then the whole vessel lifts out of the water and opens into a ball of orange fire, rolling up into the night and throwing burning pieces of itself sideways across the dark. The flames are enormous. They light up the surface of the harbor and the hulls of every boat around it. The glow pours straight through the windows and fills the inside of the car, including Manon's face. She sits bolt upright, wide awake now, staring through the glass with the fire moving in her eyes.

"Oh my God." She's got one hand on the door. "Laszlo, look. One of the boats just went up. The whole thing. Did you see that?"