Page 83 of Eyes in the Shadows

“Yeah, but with all that shit that went down Sunday night? It was a fucking massacre. Frank’s right—we should be out there, finding those fuckers—”

Fuck. Three of Rossi’s men—two who either weren't there or I let live. And they’re not just here, they’re sweeping the place, keeping guard. There’s really only one thing that means. Rossi is here.

I need to get back to the table. I need to get Eleanor the fuck out of here. I glance down to fire off one more text to Dimitri, looping Wes in, too.

“What the fuck do we have here?”

Sometimes, you don’t get a choice for your next move. Sometimes, it chooses you.

30

Eleanor

I know instantly I’ve done the wrong thing. Again.

I spin the empty martini glass on the table in front of me and look back towards the bathrooms again. The check is sitting in the little burgundy booklet in the middle of the table, and our waiter is hanging out at the bar, staying close by to ensure his tip isn’t affected by how quickly he turns over our payment. It’s times like this that I really miss not having a phone. I could use a little endless scroll right now to not look so pathetic and alone at a table, waiting for someone to come back and pay.

For the tenth time, I smooth down the sides of my skirt. I know the dress is long enough that I don’t have any bare, tender skin touching the fine upholstery, but I’m still a little nervous that it’ll flip up when I stand, for no other reason than it would be mortifying to accidentally show the whole restaurant my ass. It’s been so much fun having this dirty little secret with Mac all throughout dinner, though.

The bar is across the restaurant from where I’m standing, but I can still see pretty clearly. Our waiter turns as someone approaches, straightens and jerks a thumb in my direction. I try to studiously avoid what I assume will be the hostess coming back to hurry us along.

Green-haired bitch… openly flirting in front of me, calling me his sister… I’m really not a fan of suddenly being so territorial, it makes me feel a little crazy. It’s never happened to me before.

I feel a presence come stand next to the table and I look up. It’s not the hostess.

He’s a handsome man, lanky and probably about 5’11”. It’s hard to tell, since his face is unlined, but there are more than a few silvers among the straightblack hair, so I’d put him in his early 40’s. And his apron says Executive Chef in scrawling embroidery above his name—Anh.

“I had to come meet the table that ordered the whole menu!” he says with a warm smile, grabbing the back of Mac’s empty chair and leaning on both his hands. “How was your meal?”

I feel more than a little starstruck. The executive chef at Rouge Elephant is at my table? He may not be a celebrity, but I know how good you have to be and how hard you have to work to get where he is. “It was all so amazing,” I gush. Then, knowing he’d probably want to know, I add, “My favorite was definitely the cassoulet.”

His eyes widen. “Really? I’m pleased to hear it. It’s a new addition and it got some… mixed reviews from the staff, but it’s a favorite of mine, too.”

“Maybe the use of those lovely warming spices might have thrown people off who were expecting something more traditional?” I suggest. “What was that blend? I got coriander, star anise, cinnamon, white pepper, soy, obviously… and cloves, maybe?”

His grin widens. “I’m impressed. My sous chef couldn’t pick out the cloves. You got it exactly; you only missed the palm sugar.”

I feel my cheeks heat, for the like millionth time tonight. “I’m—I was at Bistro Jacques. Now more like a… private chef.”

“Ah, now it makes sense—you’ve worked in a restaurant. I admit that I was surprised that anyone would order the whole menu with no modifications.”

“Only someone who knows what a hassle it is, I guess.” …and who’s had a plate thrown at her head for it? “That and I know how much goes into planning a dish—it should be enjoyed as you’ve designed it.”

“From your lips to the customers’ ears. If only I could convince—”

“Chef!” a deep, booming voice cuts through Chef Anh’s soft baritone. He straightens, and turns his entire body when he sees who it is; his smile smooths into a mask of pleasant politeness, and he holds his head a little higher.

A heavy hand is placed on my shoulder and I stiffen at the familiarity of a stranger who says, “Sorry for the interruption,” in the tone of someone not sorry enough not to do it.

A man I don’t recognize comes to give Chef Anh an aggressive handshake. He’s got an air of old white guy confidence to go with his shock of gray hair and expensive suit. “Mr. Mayor,” the chef says with a nod of greeting.

“So good to catch you on my way in. Don’t think you’ve met my associate, Jay Rossi?”

In what is possibly the least smooth move anyone could possibly execute when they need to stay quiet and unnoticed, I gasp, then choke on air. I’m coughing, reaching for my almost-empty water, as Jay Rossi himself strides up next to the mayor and gives the chef his own my-dick-is-small handshake.

Rossi glances at me as I try to quell the cough, hiding my face as best I can behind the glass. He looks just like the smiling picture on the side of bus stop benches and building signs. He’s tall and in good shape, if a little thick around the middle with age. His thinning hair is combed back and looks wet, that way middle-aged Jersey businessmen do to make it look like they’ve got more. I can smell him from here—though, that might also be the mayor—and the cloud of expensive cologne around him is so thick that it nearly gags me.

He’d intimidate me even if I didn’t know who he was and what he does—but I do. And it gives him a sinister vibe that I can’t be sure actually exists or is in my head. That perfectly cut suit, Italian leather loafers and gold jewelry was bought by the lives of the people whose names get added to In Memoriams or disappear like they never existed.

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