Page 27 of Feral King

“I have an arrangement.”

“Of course you do.”

The place is a little bistro on 46th Street, tucked between a wine bar and a bookstore. It’s barely noticeable as a restaurant—there’s no signage out front, nothing promoting its existence. It’s one of those places that you just have toknowabout.

I follow him down the stairs to a nondescript front door that leads into a narrow, candlelit room; the scent of garlic and rosemary is thick in the air.

Julian holds the door for me. As soon as we enter, a maître d’ seated at the bar with a glass of wine nearby and a book in his hands, turns and eases out of his seat.

“Mr. Volkov,” he says. “A pleasure to see you tonight.”

“Likewise, Michael. Table for two, please.”

“In the back?”

“Per usual, yes.”

We’re led to a small booth in a back corner, one that allows for a full view of the room. It’s a cozy space; the walls are lined with news articles and photographs of famous people.

“Nice and private,” I say, looking around.

“That’s the idea.”

We sit, the booth so small that our knees almost touch beneath the table.

A waiter appears with a bottle of red and two menus handwritten on brown paper.

“Not necessary,” Julian says, waving them away.

He orders quickly in fluent Italian for both of us, with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times. Normally, I’d bristle at a man ordering for me, but I’m hardly feeling normal, not to mention too rattled and hungry to think straight.

“Italian,” I say as the waiter departs. “That’s… unexpected.”

“Picked it up during work travels. We had a client in Genoa, who ended up being a long-term partner. I found it easier to learn the language than to enter everything into Google Translator.”

“Smart move. Was the language the only thing you picked up over there?” My eyes flash at my own comment, at the implication that he might’ve learned Italian not just to speak to a client, but to make love.

“I did,” he says with a wink. “I learned how to cook.”

I laugh out of humor and relief.

He pours the wine, and as soon as I see the ruby-red liquid flow into the glass, it hits me how much I need a drink after the evening I’ve had. Hell,stillhaving.

I reach for the glass without thinking, catching myself.

“Sorry, I guess I’m just eager after tonight.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, pouring himself a glass. “That’s what moments like these are about—relaxing, forgetting the world outside.”

I take in the setting—the dim lighting, candles flickering at every table, the comfortable ambiance, mellow Italian music floating through the air. A few of the other tables are occupied with couples leaning in closely in conversation, looking intimately enthralled with each other.

“Well, in that case, I’d like to forget I was being stalked.”

He raises his glass. “Salute.”

“Salute,” I repeat. We tap our glasses, and I sip.

“To your liking?” he asks.