Chapter 12 - THE FIRST DINNER WHERE HE DIDN’T OWN THE TABLE
Dominic chose a small Italian restaurant in Brooklyn.
He did not own it.
He confirmed that within thirty seconds because apparently he knew I would ask.
“No financial interest.”
“Family?”
“No.”
“Silent partnership?”
“Casey.”
“Due diligence.”
He laughed.
Our first date was deeply strange.
I had once watched this man sit at a table where lawyers spoke in whispers around him.
Now he was explaining that his landlord had raised rent twelve percent.
“Devastating.”
“Mock me.”
“I am.”
He worked in logistics compliance three days a week and consulted on ethical restructuring for family-owned businesses the rest.
The irony was not lost on him.
“Do clients know your history?”
“They hire me because of it.”
“America is remarkable.”
“Yes.”
We talked about my students.
My mother.
His sister, whom I had never met.
Then I asked:
“Do you miss it?”
He knew.
“The power?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes.”
Honest.
“What part?”
“Walking into a room and knowing the answer would be yes before I asked.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It was efficient.”
I laughed.
Then his face became serious.
“That was the problem.”
He explained therapy had forced him to distinguish respect from compliance.
Fear from loyalty.
Protection from control.
“You sound expensive now.”
“Therapy is.”
At the end of dinner, he did not try to kiss me.
Good.
At the second date, neither did I.
The third lasted four hours.
The fourth, he met my mother.
Mary looked at him for approximately six seconds.
“So you’re the criminal.”
I almost died.
Dominic nodded.
“Former.”
“We’ll see.”
She liked him eventually.
Not because he paid for anything.
He knew better than to try.
Our relationship moved slowly enough to irritate everyone except us.
I kept my apartment.
My career.
My mother kept reminding Dominic that Samuel had died because powerful men believed paperwork belonged to them.
He accepted the lecture repeatedly.
Then one evening, almost two years after our first date, Dominic told me something.
“Victoria wrote.”
My expression changed.
“What did she want?”
“To apologize to you.”
“I don’t need it.”
“I told her that.”
Good.
“She also apologized to me.”
“And?”
“I accepted the apology.”
That surprised me.
“Not the marriage.”
“I know.”
“I don’t hate her.”
He looked toward the window.
“I think she spent years believing power was the only way to avoid disappearing.”
I understood.
“That doesn’t excuse her.”
“No.”
It was possible to understand people without reopening doors.
That mattered.
Then Dominic slid a small wooden box across my table.
I narrowed my eyes.
“If that is jewelry—”
“It isn’t.”
Inside was my fountain pen.
The one I used at Maison Étoile.
I thought I lost it after federal investigators copied the document.
“How did you get this?”
“It was in an evidence return box with my files.”
He had cleaned it.
Restored the nib.
Nothing engraved.
Nothing altered.
“It belongs to you.”
I held it.
A cheap pen by Dominic’s standards.
Priceless by mine.
Then he said:
“That pen cost me several billion dollars.”
I smiled.
“No.”
I capped it.
“The word did.”
He shook his head.
May you like
“The truth did.”
Better answer.
