Derrida looked up as we entered, “Vincenzo,” he greeted with a smile on face as he raised to shake his hand. His voice was smooth, rehearsed. The kind of voice that had probably soothed countless crowds and lied to just as many. His gaze swept over me once more, wary. “And… company?”
Derrida looked older in person, it was hard to miss the stress mark underneath his eyes. He was a tall man, clean-cut with silvering hair that was slicked back, his suit crisp and expensive. He was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Vincenzo pulled out a chair for me before taking his seat at the table. I sat, crossing my legs, pretending to be nothing more than a pretty accessory on his arm.
Derrida’s gaze flickered back to Vincenzo. “Didn’t know you were bringing company.”
Even the private room in th
