My brother didn’t just insult me; he performed it. It was loud enough for his clients, clean enough to sound funny, and cruel enough to land. When he snapped his fingers at the dining room manager like he owned the place, I let him. I waited because the next sentence wasn’t going to come from my mouth; it was going to come from his staff.
My name is Leah Davis, and I walked into the room like a ghost. Not the haunting kind that rattles chains, but the kind people look right through because they are too busy staring at the chandeliers. I stepped out of the biting Milwaukee wind and into the vestibule of Lark and Ledger. The heavy oak door closed behind me with a solid, expensive thud, instantly cutting off the noise of the Third Ward traffic. The air inside smelled of brown butter, sage, and the specific, crisp scent of money being spent willingly. I paused at the entrance, unbuttoning my coat. I was not dressed for the occasion, at least not by the standards of the people currently occupying the velvet banquets inside. I wore a charcoal wool sweater that had seen better days, dark jeans, and boots that were practical for walking across a construction site, not for navigating a dining room that boasted a three-month waiting list. On my left wrist, I wore a vintage Omega, the leather strap worn soft and dark against my skin. It was the only thing of value visible on me, and you had to know watches to understand it.
The hostess, a young woman named Sarah with sharp eyes and impeccable posture, looked up from her podium. Her eyes widened a fraction when she saw me. She opened her mouth to speak, likely to greet me by name, but I caught her gaze and offered a nearly imperceptible shake of my head. I raised one finger to my lips. Sarah was smart. She closed her mouth, smoothed the front of her reservation book, and gave me a slight, professional nod. She understood the game, even if she did not know the rules I was playing tonight.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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