Page 116 of On Ice

The restaurant Luca takes me to is tucked away on a quiet street in the West Village, no name on the door, just a small brass plaque with the number 27. A doorman nods to Luca with the familiarity of recognition. It’s the way people respond to him everywhere, with deference.

Inside, the lighting is amber and intimate, coming from fixtures that seem to float near the high ceiling. The walls are lined with dark wood paneling and what look like original paintings, not reproductions. The tables are spaced generously apart, each with its own small pool of light, creating the illusion that each party exists in its own private world.

“Mr. Barone,” the host greets us, looking somewhat intimidated. “Your table is ready.”

We follow him past the bar, where crystal decanters catch and fracture the light. The place smells of old wood, fine leather, and hints of truffle and garlic from the kitchen. Classical music plays at a volume just loud enough to appreciate but soft enough to converse comfortably.

Our table is in a corner alcove with a view of the garden courtyard, illuminated by strings of lights that seem to hover among bare winter branches. Two crystal glasses are immediately filled with water so clear and cold it numbs my throat when I take a sip.

“This place looks very exclusive,” I say, eyeing the other diners. They’re a mix of Wall Street and celebrities types. I know I’ve seen several of the women on TV before. I didn’t plan on eating anywhere this fancy, so I feel underdressed. I’m wearing a collared shirt, but only jeans and no tie. Luca is in a suit and most of the other customers are also dressed up. “I’m surprised they let me in without a tie.”

Luca shrugs, a subtle motion beneath his perfectly tailored suit. “They wouldn’t dare turn you away if you’re with me.”

“I don’t doubt that,” I say.

The menu has no prices, which usually would make me nervous if I were paying. As I study the menu, a server appearswith a bottle of red wine, presenting it to Luca, who merely nods. The ritual of opening and pouring unfolds with practiced precision.

“This is a 2009 Barolo,” Luca explains as our glasses are filled. “From a small producer in Piedmont. They only release about five hundred bottles a year.”

The wine catches the light, deep ruby with garnet edges. I’m no connoisseur, but even I can tell this is exceptional when I taste it. The flavors are complex layers of cherry and rose and something earthy that lingers on my tongue.

“Thanks for this.” I meet his gaze. “It’s a nice distraction, seeing you.”

He smiles, but then his expression becomes more serious. “I was watching your game and could see it wasn’t going well. I had a bad feeling you were going to lose. I immediately decided to fly in and cheer you up.”

“I’m flattered. I know you’re a busy man.”

He lifts one shoulder. “I hoped my presence might help. I knew you’d be down if you lost, and I figured either way I’d like to see you.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest that has nothing to do with the wine. The idea that Luca, with his empire to run and enemies to outmaneuver, was more worried about how depressed I’d be after losing a game touches me.

“You continually surprise me,” I say softly.

“Do I?” He wrinkles his brow.

“Yes. I’m still not used to this version of you.”

“Not many people see this side of me.” He fingers the stem of his wineglass and when he flicks his dark eyes to mine, he looks uncertain. “I can’t trust almost anyone.”

I nod, wishing he didn’t look so wary. “You can trust me.”

“Can I, Evan?” he asks quietly.

“Yes. I’d never hurt you on purpose.”

There’s a little flicker deep in his eyes. “I’d love to believe that.”

“Maybe one day you will.” I smile. “If we last longer than a month.”

He looks away, a muscle working in his cheek. “I don’t usually care if anything lasts past a week.”

“Same.”

He turns back to me, his dark eyes unreadable. He seems to struggle with whether or not he wants to continue the conversation. Then he says gruffly, “I like this thing we have. Do you?”

“If I didn’t, I’d have left when you said I could go.”

He lowers his head in acknowledgment. “Good point.”

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