At precisely eight o’clock, the delicate balance of the room shifted. It was a subtle change, a tightening in the atmosphere that only someone like Kate would notice. The front door swung open, and Alistair Finch strode in as if he owned the very air the other patrons were breathing. He did not, of course, but he owned the company that had designed the restaurant’s state-of-the-art security system, the AI that managed its stock portfolio, and probably the real estate the building sat on. Finch was a titan of the tech world, the celebrated CEO of Ethereum Dynamics. He was a man who appeared on the covers of Forbes and Wired with equal frequency, lauded as a visionary and reviled as a monopolist. In person, he was exactly as the media portrayed him. Tall, impeccably dressed in a custom Tom Ford suit that probably cost more than Kate’s car, and radiating an aura of impatient genius. His sharp, angular face was set in a permanent scowl of dissatisfaction, as if the entire world were a poorly coded program he was constantly being forced to debug.
He was not alone. Flanking him were two men built like refrigerators, their own expensive suits failing to conceal the hardware they carried beneath. A third man, leaner, with the alert, predatory eyes of a hawk, moved just ahead of them. This was Robert Henderson, Finch’s head of security, a man whose reputation in the private-security world was almost as formidable as Finch’s was in tech. The maître d’, a man named Jeffrey, who could condescend to royalty, practically genuflected as he led Finch’s party to the best table in the house. Table one, a secluded booth in the corner, with a panoramic view of the restaurant and a discreetly placed exit to a private alley. It was Kate’s section. Of course it was.
“The usual,” Finch said, not as a request, but as a command. He did not even look at Jeffrey. His attention was already on his stark pad, his fingers flying across the holographic interface. “Of course, Mr. Finch. Katherine will be taking care of you this evening.”
Kate approached the table, her notepad in hand, the picture of professional deference. “Good evening, Mr. Finch. Can I start you with some water? We have Icelandic glacial, or a sparkling San Pellegrino.” Finch did not look up. “Scotch. Macallan 25. Neat. And tell the chef I want the wagyu, but it had better be authentic Kobe. The last time it tasted like a cheap knockoff from Idaho.” His security detail remained standing, scanning the room with methodical precision. Henderson’s eyes swept over Kate, cataloging her in less than a second. Female. Non-threatening. Part of the scenery. Then he moved on. The dismissal was total. It was a feeling Kate was used to, one she actively cultivated. To be underestimated was to be unseen. To be unseen was to be safe.
She took the orders from his two companions. A steak for one. A salad for the other. Both requesting only water. They were working. Henderson did not order anything. His job was to watch. As Kate turned to leave, Finch spoke again, his voice sharp with irritation. “And you. Waitress.” Kate paused, turning back slowly. “Yes, sir.” He finally lifted his eyes from the screen. They were a piercing, intelligent blue, but utterly devoid of warmth. “Don’t hover. I require efficiency, not attentiveness. Bring the scotch, take the full order, and then make yourself scarce unless I summon you. Is that clear?” “Perfectly, sir,” Kate replied, her voice a flat, neutral tone. She met his gaze for a fraction of a second, long enough for him to see her obedience, but not long enough for him to see the flicker of something else deep within her eyes. It was a flicker of memory, of another man in another place who had spoken with that same arrogant authority right before his world had been torn apart.