34. CARSON

The exterior of Piccolo is bland enough that you might walk on by and not even notice it’s there. Except for the rich wooden doors and the deep red canopy leading to them, it’s basically just another of the featureless granite buildings that line the streets of Manhattan like Lego blocks.

But then you step inside.

The low-ceilinged foyer is quite understated, done in darkly veined marble, with a brass-and-wood reception desk that’s only a few feet wide. The maître d is a very serious-looking bald man named Avery – I’ve never been able to figure out whether it’s his first or last name – who always calls you by name, even if it’s your first time here. I have no idea how he pulls it off, but he does. Maybe a careful study of the Forbes list.

He looks up at us over his glasses as we enter.

“Mr. Drake,” he says. “Ms. Vincent. It’s a great pleasure to have you join us this evening.”

I admit it: I love to be served by people who are cultured and discreet. It’s one of the best perks of being rich.

All right, all right, if I’m being totally honest, it makes me feel like I’m James Bond. But I also tip extremely well.

I shake my head at some other nouveau riche guys, who drop thousands of dollars in high-end strip clubs with an entourage of losers. They surround themselves with noise and booze and people who are only along for the ride.

Give me a quiet, elegant room any day, with gourmet food and a beautiful, intelligent woman who gives as good as she gets.

Especially when that woman is the one by my side right now.

And Maksim, of course. But he’s different.

I see Cassie’s jaw drop a full inch as Avery leads us out of the foyer and into the dining room. Her head tilts up to follow the walls that go all the way up to the second-floor ceiling. Piccolo is so expensive, it can actually take up two whole floors of the building for a single-floor seating area.

As big as it is, the place still manages to feel cozy and intimate. It uses sound baffles built right into the architecture and artistic features of the dining area to turn each table and booth into its own perfectly private conversation area. Short of stripping completely naked and waggling your you-know-what you know where, you could do pretty much anything without getting noticed.

Avery leads us to a curved booth in an intimate corner next to a huge granite fireplace, dormant now that the temperatures are soaring into the 90s. As we slide in, he bows deeply from the waist, his narrow frame looking a bit like a coat rack that’s hinged in the middle.

“A bottle of the ’65 Chateau Lafitte will be here momentarily,” he says. “I recommend the duck this evening. Bon appetit.”

Cassie blinks several times, taking in the understated opulence. Piccolo is unlike any other restaurant I’ve ever seen, and as cool as I try to look on the outside, the real me deep inside is reveling in being able to give her this incredible experience. In truth, I would buy this woman the world, and worry it still wasn’t enough.

The wine arrives within moments and the steward opens it at the table. He hands me the cork and I take a sniff.

“Perfect,” I say.

He nods and pours us each a glass, then leaves as silently as he arrived.

“Show off,” Cassie says with a smirk.

“What, the cork?”

“You don’t need to do that anymore. Modern winemaking techniques are so foolproof that you never hear about wine turning to vinegar these days. Not even wine from 1965.”

I give her an indulgent smile.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Mr. Fancy Pants, that’s so.”

“What about from 1865?”

Her eyes widen as those delicate orange brows lift and crinkle her freckled forehead.

“Are you kidding me?” she breathes.

“Take a sip.”

She looks at the glass, awestruck, for a full ten seconds before finally lifting it off the table. I raise mine in return.

“Do I want to know how much this cost?” she asks warily.

I wince. As far as I’m aware, the only bottles of this particular vintage were found off the coast of France, buried in a sandbank approximately sixty meters beneath the waves. Perfectly chilled. In fact, the perfect environment for wine to survive in perfect condition all this time.

“Probably not.”

She sighs, but she’s smiling. That’s a good sign.

“What should we drink to?” she asks.

I lean close and lock my eyes with hers.

“To new experiences,” I say.

She smiles and our glasses touch, sending a tinkling chime through our little booth sanctuary.

We both take a sip. Cassie’s eyes close and she tilts her head back.

“Oh. Em. Gee,” she moans. “That’s ah-may-zing.”

That’s just the start of the ah-may-zing things tonight has in store for us. At least, if I get my way.

She takes another sip, savors it. We sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, looking into each other’s eyes. A pianist somewhere plays a Cole Porter tune that floats through the room like subtle incense.

Cassie eventually breaks the spell. I could have stayed there the rest of my life.

“Where are the menus?” she asks, glancing around the table.

“Piccolo doesn’t have menus,” I say. “It’s a four-course meal. The entrée is the only item you choose, and even with that, you only decide on the main ingredient.”

She looks confused.

“But how does the chef know what dishes we want?”

“Is the wine good?”

“The best I’ve ever tasted. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“We didn’t choose that, either,” I point out. “And yet it’s exactly what we wanted. Trust me, the chef here is a culinary Michelangelo. Everything he produces is a masterpiece.”

She runs a delicate hand along her throat and looks deep into my eyes.

“Remember when we used to talk about backpacking around Italy when we were kids?” she says. “Going to see David in Florence. Following in Da Vinci’s footsteps. Seeing the ruins up close.”

“Like it was yesterday.”

“I suppose you’ve been there a hundred times,” she sighs. “You were telling your friend the other day that you were there not that long ago.”

Her cleavage peeks out from the neck of her gown as she leans forward on the table, prompting a sudden mist of perspiration on the back of my neck.

“A few weeks,” I croak.

“What did you do while you were there? Tell me everything.”

I shrug.

“Nothing that involved any culture. Just hung out with… friends. Had a few laughs.”

Very few laughs compared to the time I’ve spent with her. I’ve barely given two minutes thought to my jump over Lake Garda since Cassie walked back into my life.

And friends? That’s stretching it a bit. More like friend – singular – and his acquaintances.

I flash back to the night with the two English girls in my bed, and suddenly I’m ashamed of how shallow it was. How shallow I was.

I guess it took Cassie returning to my life for me to truly realize it. All this time I became nothing more than a parody of the man I thought she wanted. When nothing could have been further from the truth.

Cassie takes another sip of wine with the same reverence.

“I think about all the travel I’ve done with… work, and I realize none of it was enjoyable,” she says. “I’ve been to some exotic places, but never really had a chance to be a tourist. To explore the culture and just have some fun.”

My heart cramps a little when I hear that. Compared to her experiences, mine are just the ridiculous escapades of a poor little rich boy. When she was fighting – hurting for her country, what the hell was I doing? No doubt swilling champagne in some ghastly bar with Maksim.

“I’d love to hear more about it some time,” I say. “But not tonight. Is that okay?”

“It’s more than okay,” she says, looking relieved. “Tonight is about the experience. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

We toast again and drink deeply. Our glasses are empty only a handful of seconds before the wine steward appears and refills them.

“Little bugger comes out of nowhere, doesn’t he?” Cassie mutters. “Like some kind of booze ninja.”

I laugh hard. She looks at me for a moment, surprised, and then joins in.

When we finally settle down, our waiter appears beside the table. He’s middle-aged, distinguished-looking like Avery, with a mustache that most hipsters would give a year of their life for.

“May I be of service?” he intones.

“Avery suggested the duck,” I say. “And you?”

He tilts his head slightly to the left.

“It would be improper of me to contradict him, sir.”

“Right. Lobster it is, then.”

His mustache rises in a prim little smile.

“Excellent choice, sir.”

We watch him stride off and disappear around a dark-paneled corner.

“You picked up on his subtext very well,” Cassie says. “I’m impressed.”

High praise coming from her. I’m sure she’s been in situations where reading subtext literally made the difference between life and death.

“If you’re impressed now, be prepared,” I say. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”