Chapter 2 - THE DEVIL'S POUR
The cellar of The Gilded Spoon was a labyrinth of dust and vintage glass, but Eleanor knew exactly where the Beluga Epicure by Lalique was hidden. Mr. Castellano kept it locked behind a wrought-iron grate, reserved for the kind of men who could buy and sell the mayor before breakfast. She bypassed the lock with a hairpin—a trick she’d learned from a childhood spent sneaking out of locked apartments when her father’s creditors came knocking. She grabbed the bottle, heavy and cold, and two crystal glasses.
When she returned to the private dining room, the atmosphere was thick enough to choke on. The scarred guard moved to intercept her again, but Damien raised a single, manicured hand. The guard stepped back, melting into the shadows. Eleanor set the glasses down. She didn’t pour immediately. Instead, she placed the bottle directly in the center of the table, the crystal catching the dim light.
"You promised me caviar," Damien said, his English flawless, devoid of the heavy accent most assumed he had.
"The chef is preparing the Beluga," Eleanor replied smoothly, matching his tone. "But the vodka breathes better if you wait exactly forty-five seconds after breaking the seal."
Damien leaned back, lacing his fingers over his chest. "You are very particular for a waitress, Eleanor."
She froze. She hadn't worn her name tag. "Mr. Castellano runs a tight ship."
"Mr. Castellano is a coward who currently has his head between his knees in the kitchen," Damien chuckled, a dark, rich sound. "I make it my business to know the names of the people who serve me, Eleanor. But I don't know your last name."
"It's not important," she said, pouring the clear liquid.
"Everything is important," he countered, picking up the glass. He took a sip, closing his eyes briefly. "Perfect. Now, sit down."
Eleanor stared at him. "I have tables to tend to."
"They can wait." His tone left no room for negotiation. "I have a meeting in five minutes with a man who thinks I cannot understand his dialect. You are going to sit beside me, pour the drinks, and translate everything he says under his breath."
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Before Eleanor could object, the heavy oak doors swung open. Three men in sharply tailored suits walked in, the air suddenly reeking of cheap cologne and dangerous intentions. Damien didn't look at them. He kept his eyes on Eleanor. "Sit," he murmured in Russian. "Or I will start asking about the men who were looking for you in the alley out back."
Her blood ran cold. She sat.
