Elena
The restaurant Jaxon asked to meet at was a fair deal nicer than the initial seedy bar where we had first spoken; it was a cozy bistro in the lower east side, overlooking the river, with twinkling candles in the windows.
He showed up without a disguise this time, although I couldn’t help but notice with a sense of humor that he had taken my advice and had removed the emerald ring from his hand. As for myself, I had worn a hood—just to be safe.
We made our way inside, where the hostess led us to a table in a private corner of the restaurant that was cordoned off with privacy screens. As we took our seats, I said, “I take it you’re not worried about us being recognized.”
Jaxon smirked and gestured around us. “I own the place. My staff have the utmost discretion, I assu
