Chapter 4 - The River Café
At 5:58 p.m., the rain began to fall over Manhattan in cold, grey sheets.
Evelyn stood beneath the stone curve of the Washington Square Arch, holding an umbrella, watching the traffic circle the park.
At precisely six o'clock, a sleek black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up to the curb.
The tinted window rolled down halfway.
Damian Moretti sat in the back, dressed in a black velvet tuxedo jacket, a crisp white shirt, and an unbuttoned bow tie hanging around his collar. He looked effortlessly, dangerously handsome.
“Get in, Evelyn,” he said.
Evelyn closed her umbrella, stepped into the plush interior, and sat across from him. The air inside smelled of rare rain, rich leather, and his distinct cedar fragrance.
The car pulled away immediately, heading south toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
“How was your lecture?” Damian asked, pouring two glasses of sparkling water from a hidden silver dispenser.
“Exhausting,” Evelyn said, taking a glass. “Half my class thinks I’m dating a mobster. The other half thinks I’m about to be subpoenaed by a grand jury.”
“Let them think both,” Damian said smoothly. “Uncertainty creates caution. Caution keeps people from asking dangerous questions.”
Evelyn watched him closely as the city lights blurred through the rain-streaked window. “You’re enjoying this.”
Damian met her gaze, his gray eyes dark under the passing streetlamps. “I don't enjoy theatricality, Miss Vance. But I enjoy efficiency. The FBI spent four hours today running your background through every database in Quantico. They found your father’s police record, your scholarship at NYU, and your sister’s medical bills.”
“And what did they conclude?”
“They concluded that I have a soft spot for a brilliant, desperate cop’s daughter,” Damian said softly. “They think I’m using my money to keep you quiet while I use your legal knowledge to audit my shell companies.”
Evelyn frowned. “Are you?”
Damian smiled—that slow, mesmerizing curve of his lips. “I don't need you to audit my companies, Evelyn. My accountants have degrees from Oxford and haven't felt human emotion since 2010. I need you to look pretty, keep your mouth shut, and eat dinner with me.”
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the River Café, nestled beneath the towering iron framework of the Brooklyn Bridge. The restaurant was completely empty.
Every candle on every white-clothed table was lit, flickering softly against the backdrop of the illuminated Manhattan skyline across the East River.
Evelyn stopped in the doorway, staring at the empty dining room. “You rented the entire restaurant?”
“I don't like audience noise when I eat,” Damian said, holding out a hand to guide her to a prime window table.
As they sat down, waiters in black vests appeared like ghosts, pouring wine, placing warm bread, and serving delicate plates of seared yellowfin tuna without a single word being spoken.
Evelyn looked out at the glowing skyline, feeling a surreal sensation take hold of her. Twenty-four hours ago, she was counting pennies for a vending machine sandwich. Tonight, she was sitting in a private dining room under the Brooklyn Bridge with a man who could command the city with a whisper.
“Tell me about your law program,” Damian said, slicing his fish with precision. “Why criminal law?”
Evelyn picked up her water glass, considering her answer. “Because the system is broken. People with money buy justice, and people without it get ground into dust by the state. My father believed in the law, but the law didn't protect him when his precinct swept his partner’s corruption under the rug.”
Damian’s eyes sharpened. “Your father’s partner was corrupt?”
“He was taking payoffs from dock union bosses,” Evelyn said quietly, the old bitterness rising in her throat. “My father was going to internal affairs the week he was shot. The department called it a random mugging. My mother knew better. I knew better.”
Damian set his fork down softly. The cool, detached air he usually carried vanished, replaced by an intense, dark focus.
“Which dock union?” he asked.
“Local 1804,” she said. “Red Hook.”
Damian’s gray eyes narrowed into silver slits. “Vincent Russo’s territory.”
Evelyn’s breath caught in her chest. “Russo?”
“Russo ran Local 1804 six years ago,” Damian said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rumble. “He bought every detective in the Two-Six precinct to keep his smuggling routes clear.”
Evelyn stared at him, the pieces connecting in her brain like a striking bolt of lightning.
The man who had been sitting across from Damian at the Obsidian Room yesterday—the man Damian had insulted and kicked out over her accidental slip of the tongue—was the same man responsible for her father’s unpunished death.
“You knew,” she whispered, her hands shaking on the tablecloth. “When you saw my name... when you saw my father’s record yesterday... you knew who Russo was to me.”
May you like
Damian reached across the small table, his large, warm hand covering hers, pinning her trembling fingers against the cloth.
“I didn't know until tonight,” Damian said softly, his gray eyes locking onto hers with terrifying sincerity. “But now I do. And suddenly, Evelyn... twenty-one days doesn't feel nearly long enough.”
