Roman had eaten at Varro's a dozen times.
It was the kind of place that stayed full without advertising itself, dark wood paneling, tables set far enough apart that conversations stayed private. His lunch was with a property developer named Gideon Marsh, a joint venture discussion Roman had not yet decided whether to pursue. Routine. He had done fifty meetings like it.
He saw her four steps inside the door.
Corner table, slightly removed from the main floor. Four people. Dante on her left, arms loose, posture relaxed in the specific way of someone who was never actually relaxed. A silver-haired man across from her, the kind of face that said lawyer or senior counsel, the kind of expensive suit that said he had been wearing expensive suits for thirty years. A younger man beside him, lean
