"Do you know how much work I had to do in order to steal those files?"
"I don't," he said so simply, and pushed a small envelope into my hand. "Your first real task. Let's see if you're truly committed."
I tucked the envelope into my handbag, ignoring the itch of curiosity. Not now. Not here.
I exhaled slowly, steeling myself.
He left before me. I went into the restroom to retouch my lipstick, but my hand lingered in mid-sweep. A savage memory of the night my family was murdered overcame me, swift and vivid. I closed my eyes, shoving it away.
A moment later, I emerged again into the main restaurant just in time to see Vincenzo's contact heading towards Stefanos's table.
I kept moving, my face schooled to expressionlessness, as I observed the scene unfold.
The man sat down across from Stefanos, on the seat I had been occupying, drumming his fingers on the table.
"Relax," he breathed, picking up the half-empty glass of whiskey Stefanos had been nursing. He raised it to his lips, then drank a small amount. "Didn't think you were a bourbon man."
Stefanos bristled, his eyes snapping up in anger. "That's my chair, and you're drinking my drink."
The man sneered, setting the glass down on the table with care. "Yeah, my, my, my. You people act like you own the fucking world, but can't even help a fellow to a drink."
Stefanos snarled. "If you'd only asked me politely, maybe I'd have bought you a bottle you entitled piece of garbage."
The man chuckled, unfazed by Stefanos's hostility. He tapped the rim of the glass with his finger. "Entitled? That's rich coming from you," he said, his tone laced with humor. "But maybe you are right. Maybe I should have asked nicely. Maybe you would have been kind enough to give a drink to a man down on his luck."
Stefanos snorted, eyes rolling. "You? Out of luck? You're in the wrong part of town if you're seeking a handout."
The man puffed out his chest and moved in closer, lowering his voice just enough so that the talk would sound intimate—like a conspiracy, even. "I don't know what's the matter with you richpeople. Too selfish to part with your belongings. None of which you'd take with you when you die."
I slowed my pace slightly as I approached, keeping my expression stoic. The man looked up and grinned at me.
"Aha," he said, moving back from the table. "Guess I've overstayed my welcome." He stood, pushing back his sleeves. "Don't worry, I'll go find someone else to treat me to a drink."
Stefanos surged forward in his chair, his voice sharp. "Don't let me see your face again."
The man simply laughed and shook his head. "Thanks for the drink," he replied smoothly. "We will see each other again." He turned and departed.
To anyone watching, it would be a cordial, small tense meeting between two acquaintances. Nothing unusual. Nothing that would trigger alarms. But I was aware of what had truly happened, and it was well done.
"What's happening?" I asked, sitting. "Who was that man?"
"Just some wacko guy," Stefanos replied.
"Oh, okay."
He took a sip of his drink, his gaze flicking in my direction. The whole thing with Vincenzo's goon had shaken him up, but he was far from admitting it.
"You know, you never struck me as the type of individual who would be into fine dining," he said, twirling the stem of the wine glass between his fingers. "I always figured you were more... practical."
I grinned, tilting my head. "And I thought you were the type who loved women who appreciated the finer things in life."
He smirked. "Oh, I do. I just wasn't certain that included you."
I arched an eyebrow, feigning offense. "And what was it that led you to believe such?"
He leaned closer, his voice a little more than a breath on my face. "Well, let's see... You order whiskey straight, roll your eyes at luxury labels, and are far more interested in a dagger honed to perfection than you are a diamond necklace."
I ran a finger along my chin, pretending to consider the possibility. "So you're saying that my appreciation for the finer things in life is to be packaged in steel rather than silk?"
