“Where’s Fred?”
“Mr. Dolce is busy right now,” the maitre d’ says through gritted teeth. “And he’ll tell you exactly the same thing. We’re willing to accommodate you but if you want the private room I’m afraid you do need to book in advance.”
“Listen here, you little…”
“Apollo! My oldest, dearest friend!” Frederico is suddenly there, just as I’m about to tear this guy’s balls off, laughing as he smiles around at the people at other tables. “Theo, I’ll take things from here.”
“Mr. Dolce, I was just explaining to—”
“I heard, I heard. Don’t worry, please just go back to your job, Theo. Apollo, it’s wonderful to see you. Will you follow me?”
I glare at Theo until he drops his gaze. The little punk is lucky that’s all I do. Then I turn to Fred. “Private room,” I say simply.
“Really, it’s fine, we can just…” Cassandra falls silent as I grip her tighter.
“Private room.”
Fred nods, still smiling. “Of course, anything for you. The usual private room would be yours under any other circumstances, but I have my office behind the kitchen and I’d be happy to get you set up in there. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at how comfortable we can make it. If that’s agreeable?”
“Fine,” I say, and follow him past the tables of people pretending to be having their own conversations. I don’t give a fuck about any of them, I just need to get her out of their sight.
As soon as we’re through the doors into the kitchen, it’s like I can finally breathe again. The staff are all occupied with their own things, and I guide Cassandra by the small of her back, right through past them and to the office where Fred’s previous “business partners” finally listened to sense and relinquished their claim on his business five years ago.
It’s not a large space, but as we enter one of the wait staff is just leaving, and an intimate round table has been placed in the center, with Fred’s desk moved off to the side. A candle has been lit in the middle of the table, and a single rose in a small vase.
“Please, sit and take a look through the menu. I’ll serve you myself tonight. I can personally recommend the wild mushroom risotto.”
Fred moves forward to pull Cassandra’s chair out for her, but I shoulder him out of the way and do it myself.
“We’ll have one of everything,” I say as I help her into her seat. “And a bottle of your best wine.”
* * *
Two hours later, I know more about Cassandra’s life, and she knows more about mine, than I expect either one of us intended to let slip. I’ve learned far more about her here than I did from breaking into her apartment a few days ago. That was clean, clinical. I took note of her shampoo and perfume, of course, so that I could make sure I had the same ones at home, but otherwise it was impersonal. A ridiculous number of little black dresses, all hung up in her wardrobe. No photographs of anyone in her life. No hobbies.
But now, apart from the stuff about the FBI, which obviously was completely absent, I think she’s being honest with me. I know that her dad was in the same line of work as her. I assume he was an agent, even though she made out like he was a florist. I know that flowers are pretty much her life, and I think that was the truth. There was a sadness in her eyes like she wishes it wasn’t all a lie. I didn’t like that, but it makes me hopeful that she isn’t just stringing me along, that there’s more here, that she wants what I want and just doesn’t know how to take it.
I was as honest with her as I could be as well, telling her enough that she could probably go back to Jackson right now and he’d be pleased with her progress. Nothing incriminating, but enough that they could probably get a warrant if they wanted one.
It wouldn’t do them any good, but they could get one.
Cassandra tried to just put a little salad on her plate, but I wouldn’t allow it. I know that’s all she fucking eats, and I don’t like it. Sure, looking after her health, I get that. But there’s a difference between health and weight, and when I went inside her apartment a few days ago and saw that there was nothing else in the fridge, that’s when I started to worry.
And seeing the way she ate when I made sure she knew I wouldn’t judge her for it? I get the impression it’s something she’s had drummed into her.
“Time for dessert,” I tell her. “What do you want?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly eat any more. The meal…”
“Isn’t over until you have dessert. Come on, take a look at the menu. Anything you want.”
“Well…” I see the twinkle in her eye as she pulls her lips to the side, not even glancing at the menu. “Anything I want?”
I nod. “Anything.”
“Well…”
“Anything.”