Page 99 of Lorenzo

“Normally, I’d say yes, yes, and yes. But I posed a trick question. For my surprise to work, we must have dinner now. And play later …”

“Got it, boss. I’ll get ready.”

After dressing, we descend the formal staircase for dinner.

I’m surprised the dining room holds only four tables, each draped in white linen so stiff it might have been cut from paper.

“Nice,” says Emily, moving close to me as she observes the beautifully set tables illuminated with candlelight. She turns to greet a silver-haired couple, the only other people in the room.

“I feel like we’re actors on a Masterpiece Theatre stage set,” Em says. Just then, the tuxedo-clad maître d’ makes a show of snapping an ironed white linen napkin onto her lap.

“The first course of your tasting menu will arrive shortly,” he says, as the sommelier pours Champagne into two tall flutes.

“Thank you,” says Emily, clinking her glass against mine. “For everything.”

I try to keep our conversation light and pleasant during the progression of delicious dishes that come our way.

“Emily,” I say, when the meal is over. “There’s something I need to explain.”

“That sounds ominous,” she says, sipping her water.

“You know your uncle sits on the gaming commission.”

She nods.

“And you’ve just had first-hand experience of the Russian taunts. Her eyes blaze with anger. “All too well.”

“The truth is, your uncle got himself into trouble with the Russians long ago.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Speaking in a low voice, I tell her things no woman should ever hear, especially about her own uncle.

“You say you and Dante had a plan to help my uncle get out from under his Russian blackmail. And that the reason for our temporary marriage stems from that plan. But if the plan was working, why did the Russians send me entrails and kidnap Biscotti?”

“Because someone leaked them information that revealed the plan. So now, we’re starting at square one.”

Emily’s fragile shoulders sag.

Just then, what looks to be the entire kitchen staff, including the toque-wearing chef, come toward us singing the Happy Birthday song.

When Emily receives the cake, she blushes and blows out the candles.

“And your husband asked me to find a bottle of Champagne from the year of your birth,” the sommelier says, presenting the bottle to both of us before pouring it into flutes. “Happy birthday!”

We toast. The excitement and fuss about her birthday bring the warmth back to Emily’s countenance.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I tell her, pulling her to her feet. “I have an idea.”

CHAPTER 44

LORENZO

“OMG, Lorenzo, look at this!”

I step inside our suite.

During dinner, the hotel staff had slipped into our suite to surprise us with a more romantic setting when we returned.