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“You won’t try to talk me out of it.”
I’m definitely curious now. “Okay, where do you want to meet? Dinner out, in?”
“Can we decide later? I’m not sure how late I’ll be at the office and if I’ll have time to cook.”
Which means we’ll probably eat out. Marissa is the only person I know who works longer hours than I do.
“All right, text later?”
“Sure, love you.”
“Love you, bye.”
I stab a rhubarb pickle with my fork and bite the top half off. Today turned out to be a far more interesting day than I’d expected… I smile to myself, wondering how MGM’s lunch break is going.
5
GABRIEL
After half an hour spent in traffic where I got stuck in another business call, which at least prevented any panic attacks, my driver drops me off in Queens in front of a nondescript pizza joint—Joe’s. I double-check the address on the Post-it note, but it confirms I’m in the right place.
Looking at the storefront with its faded striped awning and flickering neon sign, I wonder if being here is the best use of my time. But I’ve come this far, I might as well satisfy my newfound grudge. Besides, now I want to meet Angry Blue Eyes’s father and see what’s his deal.
Tobias makes to get out of the car to open my door, but I stop him. “Stay.”
The driver nods at me through the rearview mirror. “Wait for you around here, sir?”
“That’d be perfect, thanks.”
I exit the car and pause for an extra second in front of the restaurant—more of a diner. Definitely a weird hangout for a billionaire. But maybe Avery is a Bobby Axelrod fan and conducts his most secret dealings out of a greasy spoon.
I shrug and push my way in.
The interior has seen better times but at least seems clean. A mix of scents—tomato sauce, basil, and fresh dough—fills the air. The tiny place is lit with fluorescent bulbs strung across the ceiling. Above the cash register, the menu is written on a chalkboard behind the counter next to a massive wood-fired brick oven. Takeaway boxes are stacked against the oven in one corner.
The place is small but packed. In fact, I sit at the last available booth, still looking around me, trying to surmise who among the patrons could be Blake Avery. I scan the tables. A tall, skinny dude in the far corner is too skimpy to be my mark. The table next to him is occupied by teenagers, and one table over, there’s a group of men who look like they’re employed in a blue-collar job. The last table before mine is taken by a flock of loud women having a social lunch.
I should give up and google the son of a gun. I’m taking out my phone to do just that when a man in his mid-fifties—salt-and-pepper hair, straight back, jovial expression—steps next to my table. “What can I get for you?”
I glance in passing at the blackboard menu where my options are spelled out in white chalk: Regular – 5.95, Pepperoni – 6.95, Day’s Special – 7.95. But I’m not here to get lunch, am I?
I study the man a second longer before I say, “I’d like to see Blake Avery.”
“Blake?” The man seems surprised. “She hasn’t worked here in years.”
She.
The cogs in my brain spin with the million ramifications that simple pronoun prompts.
“Blake used to work here?”
“Yes, but not since her internet business took off,” the man continues. “Are you one of her fans?”
“No, I’m…” What am I? A fool, apparently. “We have some business to discuss. I’m sorry. How do you know Blake?”
“I’m her father.”
The echo of a conversation plays in my head, and I silently groan.
