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Thankfully, our server showed up at that moment and interrupted her before she launched into a spiel about icing or whatever the hell she wanted to talk about.
“We’ll have the Golden Imperial caviar and tuna tartare on foie gras to start, and the lamb chops for the main,” Francis said, ordering for both himself and his wife. He handed the menu dismissively to the server without looking at him.
“I’ll have the tagliatelle, please,” Vivian said.
Francis’s brows beetled. “This isn’t an Italian restaurant, Vivian. They’re known for their lamb. Why don’t you get that instead?”
Because she doesn’t like lamb, you fucker.
My back teeth clenched. Even if Francis weren’t blackmailing me, I’d despise him.
How could he have gone twenty-eight years without knowing his daughter’s aversion to that particular meat? Or maybe he simply didn’t care.
“The waitlist for a Le Charles reservation is four months long,” Francis said. “Even the governor has trouble getting a table when he’s in town. It’s ridiculous to waste a meal here on anything other than their best.”
“I…” Vivian faltered. “You’re right. Can I change my order to the lamb, please?” She gave the server an apologetic smile. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” The server’s polite expression didn’t waver. We might as well be discussing the weather for all the reaction he showed. “And for you, Mr. Russo?”
I closed my menu with deliberate precision and kept my eyes on Vivian’s father while I ordered. “I’d like the tagliatelle.”
Francis’s lips thinned.
If we were at home, I would’ve called him out directly, but we were sitting smack dab in the middle of the restaurant. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of making a scene.
“How’s your brother doing?” Francis asked. “I hear he’s working a sales job at Lohman & Sons now. Seems…below his pay grade.”
“He’s doing just fine,” I said coolly. “Contribution is contribution, whether it’s in a retail or corporate role.”
“Hmm.” He lifted his wine to his lips. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
I wasn’t fooled by the seemingly innocuous change in topic. Francis was trying to remind me what was at stake.
He said he was in town for a show, but the sudden visit was a power play designed to throw me off balance.
We were only a few months out from the wedding. He was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. He must’ve known I was working behind the scenes to destroy the blackmail evidence.
I’d been quiet too long, and he was getting nervous, for good reason.
My Valhalla date with Vivian had triggered an epiphany. She said he was superstitious about dates and numbers, and the digging I had Christian do in the past week backed up her assertion.
His home address, his business address, his license plate…all of it centered around the number eight. I’d bet my brother’s life he had eight copies of the blackmail photos.
Christian was already tracking down the remaining three sets. Once he found them, it was game over for Francis fucking Lau.
For the first time that night, I smiled.
The rest of dinner passed without incident. Vivian and her mother carried the conversation, though it took all my willpower not to lose my shit when Cecelia chastised her for wearing the “wrong” makeup shade or when her father overruled her dessert choice the way he had her entree by insisting she try the restaurant’s chocolate tart instead of the cheesecake.
I didn’t know what was worse—her parents’ overbearing attitude or Vivian’s willingness to take it. She would’ve never let me talk to her the way they did.
“Whatever you want to say, say it,” she said when we returned home. She took off her earrings and dropped them in the gold dish on the dresser. “You’ve been silently fuming the entire car ride home.”
I took off my jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair. “Not fuming. Simply wondering how you overcame your lifelong disdain for lamb within the past twenty-four hours.”
Vivian sighed. “It’s one meal. It’s not a big deal. “
“It’s not about the food, Vivian.” Aggravation simmered in my veins. “It’s about the way your parents treat you like you’re a child. It’s about how you turn into a cardboard cutout of yourself whenever you’re around them.” I gestured at her outfit. “This isn’t you. You hate lamb. You’re not a tweed and pearls person. You wouldn’t be caught dead in that outfit on a normal day.”
