She went up to the captain at the head of the line and said, “How long a wait will there be for a table?”
“How many in your party?”
“I’m alone.”
“I’m sorry, miss, but I’m afraid—”
A voice beside her said, “My booth, Abe.”
The captain beamed and said, “Certainly, Mr. Moretti. This way, please.”
Jennifer turned and found herself looking into the deep black eyes of Michael Moretti.
“No, thank you,” Jennifer said. “I’m afraid I—”
“You have to eat.” Michael Moretti took Jennifer’s arm and she found herself walking beside him, following the captain to a choice banquette in the center of the large room. Jennifer loathed the idea of dining with Michael Moretti, but she did not know how to get out of it now without creating a scene. She wished fervently that she had agreed to have dinner with Peter Fenton.
They were seated at a banquette facing the stage and the captain said, “Enjoy your dinner, Mr. Moretti, miss.”
Jennifer could feel Michael Moretti’s eyes on her and it made her uncomfortable. He sat there, saying nothing. Michael Moretti was a man of deep silences, a man who distrusted words, as though they were a trap rather than a form of communication. There was something riveting about his silence. Michael Moretti used silence the way other men used speech.
When he finally spoke, Jennifer was caught off guard.
“I hate dogs,” Michael Moretti said. “They die.”
And it was as though he was revealing a private part of himself that came from some deep wellspring. Jennifer did not know what to reply.
Their drinks arrived and they sat there drinking quietly, and Jennifer listened to the conversation they were not having.
She thought about what he had said: I hate dogs. They die. She wondered what Michael Moretti’s early life had been like. She found herself studying him. He was attractive in a dangerous, exciting way. There was a feeling of violence about him, ready to explode.
Jennifer could not say why, but being with this man made her feel like a woman. Perhaps it was the way his ebony black eyes looked at her, then looked away from her, as though fearful of revealing too much. Jennifer realized it had been a long time since she had thought of herself as a woman. From the day she had lost Adam. It takes a man to make a woman feel female, Jennifer thought, to make her feel beautiful, to make her feel wanted.
Jennifer was grateful he could not read her mind.
Various people approached their booth to pay their respects to Michael Moretti: business executives, actors, a judge, a United States senator. It was power paying tribute to power, and Jennifer began to feel a sense of how much influence he wielded.
“I’ll order for us,” Michael Moretti said. “They prepare this menu for eight hundred people. It’s like eating on an airline.”
He raised his hand and the captain was at his side instantly. “Yes, Mr. Moretti. What would you like tonight, sir?”
“We’ll have a Chateaubriand, pink and charred.”
“Of course, Mr. Moretti.”
“Pommes soufflées and an endive salad.”
“Certainly, Mr. Moretti.”
“We’ll order dessert later.”
A bottle of champagne was sent to the table, compliments of the management.
Jennifer found herself beginning to relax, enjoying herself almost against her will. It had been a long while since she had spent an evening with an attractive man. And even as the phrase came into Jennifer’s mind, she thought, How can I think of Michael Moretti as attractive? He’s a killer, an amoral animal with no feelings.
Jennifer had known and defended dozens of men who had committed terrible crimes, but she had the feeling that none of them was as dangerous as this man. He had risen to the top of the Syndicate and it had taken more than a marriage to Antonio Granelli’s daughter to accomplish that.
“I telephoned you once or twice while you were away,” Michael said. According to Ken Bailey, he had called almost every day. “Where were you?” He made the question sound casual.
“Away.”
A long silence. “Remember that offer I made you?”
Jennifer took a sip of her champagne. “Don’t start that again, please.”