Maya slid one finger beneath the cream envelope and opened it.
For the first time since she had walked into the alcove, the five large men surrounding the Sicilian boss stopped watching Gabriel Laurent.
They watched her.
Inside the envelope was a folded document, thick enough to hold several pages.
Maya did not pull everything out at once.
She glanced first at the man in charcoal.
He gave the smallest nod.
Laurent found his voice.
“Maya, give that to me.”
She looked at him.
His face had lost its color, but his tone had already begun rebuilding its usual authority.
“That is restaurant business,” he said.
“You are an employee.
Hand it over.”
The Sicilian said something quietly.
Maya understood.
She turned to Laurent.
“He says not to touch it.”
Laurent froze.
The pistol still rested beside the untouched wineglass, but the Sicilian had not looked at it once since Maya arrived.
Somehow that made the warning heavier.
His authority did not seem to come from the weapon.
The weapon merely happened to be present.
Laurent swallowed.
“What does he want?”
Maya unfolded the first page.
She expected perhaps a reservation confirmation, a private contract, something related to the kitchen or a delivery.
Instead, Laurent’s name appeared near the top.
She looked at him.
He looked at the page.
And that was when she understood that Laurent knew more than he had pretended to know.
The Sicilian repeated the question he had asked from the beginning.
Maya listened carefully.
His dialect was fast and clipped, rougher than the polished Italian that fashionable Manhattan diners liked to sprinkle into conversation.
But the meaning was clear.
He wanted to know why the agreement described in the envelope had not been honored.
Maya translated.
Laurent laughed once, much too quickly.
“There is no agreement.”
The Sicilian spoke again.
Maya translated.
“He says the agreement is in my hand.”
Rick stood motionless near the service station.
The senator two tables away had abandoned any attempt to pretend he was not listening.
Across the dining room, forks hovered over plates while diners stared carefully at anything except the alcove.
Laurent straightened his jacket.
“This is absurd.
I manage this restaurant.
I know every contract that matters here.”
The Sicilian tapped one finger against the table.
Once.
Maya lowered her eyes to the document.
There were signatures.
Dates.
References to San Lorenza.
References to an arrangement made before that evening.
