He was about thirty-eight, taller than I expected, with thick dark hair, light stubble, and a scar running from the edge of his right cheek toward his ear. His charcoal suit fit too well to be rented, but his tie hung loose, as if whatever meeting he had come from had already drained his patience. Dark ink disappeared beneath his collar, and a geometric tattoo circled one wrist. His expression was controlled, unreadable.
But the child in his arms was rubbing a sleepy fist against one eye, and that absurd contrast made me stare. Dangerous man. Tiny blue sock.
Greg materialized at my elbow. “Table Twelve.”
I looked at him. “You’re joking.”
“I have never been less funny in my life.”
“I have six tables.”
“You now have five.”
“Greg—”
“Avery.” He almost never used my first name. That scared me more than Luca Moretti did. “Do not improvise. Do not make jokes. Do not ask personal questions. And if he wants something, get it.”
I glanced toward Table Twelve. “He brought a baby.”
“I can see that.”
“So maybe he’s just here for dinner.”
Greg gave me the look usually reserved for people who put aluminum foil in the microwave. “Sure. Let’s believe that.”
Table Twelve
I drew a breath, picked up a menu, and walked over. Luca’s men sat on either side of him. The baby sat on his lap — solemn and blond, in a little navy sweater over a white shirt, with large gray-blue eyes. Strangely serious eyes.
“Good evening,” I said. “Welcome to Aurelia.”
Luca looked up, and I discovered the man had the unnerving habit of giving a person his complete attention. No distracted glance. No checking his phone. No pretending. When those dark eyes landed on me, I suddenly noticed my crooked name tag, my worn shoes, the loose strand of hair against my cheek.
“What can I bring you to drink?”
“Mineral water.” His voice was lower than I expected. “The Barolo for the table.”