I glare at her. “It’s not like that.”
“Don’t worry, honey,” she croons reassuringly. “It’s our little secret.”
“Have the catering staff arrived?”
Lev eyes me knowingly. “Is that really your question?”
I grimace. He’s on one tonight. “Answer it, motherfucker.”
He chuckles. “Yes, Don Stepanov, the catering staff—none of whose identities matter at all in any way to anyone, especially not the sous chef’s and especially not to you—just pulled up outside the staff’s quarters. They’re making their way up to the kitchen on the seventeenth floor as we speak.”
Lev and I are sitting in a private drawing room that adjoins the immaculate suite at the Plaza Hotel that I’ve booked for the evening. The dinner will take place in The Gilded Room, which boasts a stunning view of Los Angeles.
I like se
