Damian Thorne did not walk into a room. He conquered it. He entered Le Volet d’Or not as a guest, but as a predator assessing new territory. He was flanked by two others, a striking silver-haired man and a woman in her late forties with sharp, intelligent eyes that missed nothing. Damian was tall, his brown suit tailored so perfectly it looked molded to his frame. A heavy Patek Philippe watch adorned his wrist, catching the light from the chandelier. But it was his eyes that held the room. Cold. Blue. Utterly devoid of warmth.
He was already talking, his voice a low, confident boom that cut through the restaurant’s hushed ambiance. “And the zoning permits are a mere formality, Antoine. I have the mayor on speed dial,” Damian was saying, clapping the older man on the shoulder.
The older man, whom Eve presumed was Antoine, offered a polite, thin-lipped smile. “That is reassuring, Monsieur Thorne. But as we discussed, the cultural preservation of the Parisian district is paramount.” His English was precise, elegant, and heavily accented.
“Culture. Culture, of course.” Damian waved a dismissive hand. “We’ll build a lovely plaza. People love plazas.”
Eve approached, the water carafe feeling like a block of ice in her hand. “Good evening, sir, madam. Welcome to Le Volet d’Or. May I offer you some water, still or sparkling?”
Damian did not even look at her. He continued his conversation, gesturing emphatically. The woman, however, turned her gaze on Eve. It was an appraising look, not unkind, but analytical.
“Sparkling, please,” the woman said. Her voice was a low contralto, her French accent different from the man’s, more modern Parisian. “And for you, Antoine?”
“Still, Sylvie,” the man, Antoine, replied.
Eve nodded, her movements economical and precise. She poured the water, her hands steady despite the man’s overpowering presence. Damian was still ignoring her, now pulling out his phone. “See this? That’s the projection for Q4. Astonishing,” he said, shoving the phone toward Antoine.
“Excuse me, sir,” Eve said, her voice just loud enough to cut through.
Damian Thorne finally looked at her. It was not a glance. It was an act of interruption, as if a piece of furniture had suddenly spoken. He sighed, a sound of profound and exaggerated irritation. “What?” he snapped.
“The menus, sir,” Eve said, holding out three leather-bound menus.
“Fine, fine. Give it here.” He snatched one from her hand. Mr. Henderson was watching from across the room, wringing his hands. Damian flipped open the menu. Le Volet d’Or, in its quest for authenticity, printed its menu entirely in French. No helpful English subtitles. No concessions. Usually the captains or senior waiters were there to translate, but for a VIP table, the restaurant assumed a certain level of sophistication.
Eve watched as Damian’s eyes scanned the page. A flicker of something. Confusion. It was immediately masked by more bluster. “Right,” he said, closing the menu with a thud. “We’ll start with the, uh, the foie gras. And bring a bottle of the ’90 Margaux. The Château Margaux.” He pronounced it Margo, the x sounding like a chisel on concrete.