PART 5: Entering the Lion’s Den
PART 5: Entering the Lion’s Den
High-end bistros change family dinner dynamics.
By 6:55 PM, I stood in front of our apartment building’s hallway mirror for the fourth time, smoothing down the fabric of a simple navy wrap dress that I usually reserved for client presentations.
My hair, which had been tied in a chaotic messy bun all day, was brushed out into soft waves over my shoulders.
I looked respectable, professional, and entirely unprepared for whatever psychological chess match Adrian Kane had planned for our evening.
Mia wore her favorite pink dress with silver stars, carrying her stuffed elephant Gerald tucked firmly under one arm like a vital diplomatic attaché.
“Are we meeting the tall prince?” Mia asked as we walked down the concrete steps of our brownstone into the crisp evening air.
“He is not a prince, Mia. He is my boss. And we are having a very normal, very professional dinner where we do not discuss marriage, daddies, or corporate takeovers.”
“Okay,” she agreed cheerfully, skipping along the sidewalk. “We can talk about ice cream instead.”
Trattoria Rossi was a cozy, dimly lit neighborhood gem tucked behind climbing ivy, known more for its incredible truffle pasta than corporate power-dining.
Yet when the maître d’ spotted us walking through the wrought-iron entrance, his expression instantly transformed from casual greeting to reverent awe.
“Ah, Madame Elena. Right this way, please,” the maître d’ murmured, guiding us past the crowded dining room straight through a set of French doors into a private, cobblestone courtyard garden bathed in the warm glow of string lights.
There, sitting at a corner table draped in crisp white linen, was Adrian Kane.
He had removed his suit jacket; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up neatly to his forearms, revealing strong, lightly tanned forearms that looked entirely too casual for a billionaire industrialist.
When he saw us, he stood up immediately, pulling out the chair opposite him with effortless, old-world manners.
“You made it,” Adrian said, his gray-blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the cool autumn breeze feel instantly warm.
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“We try to maintain good corporate punctuality, Mr. Kane,” I replied smoothly, slipping into the seat while Mia eagerly claimed the chair beside him.
“Tonight, dropped titles are mandatory,” Adrian said, a faint, lopsided smile touching his lips. “It’s Adrian. At least until Monday morning.”
