Chapter Nine
I step into Miso Hungry a couple of minutes early.
He’s not here yet. Good. That gives me a chance to gather my wits, such as they are.
The décor in this place is modern and clean. The smells that penetrate the filters in my nose aren’t too overpowering—just a faint hint of seaweed, a stronger tang of sesame oil, and a mix of stale colognes and perfumes that fill every indoor space occupied by people.
“Can I help you?” the hostess asks when I linger by the entrance.
“I’m waiting for—”
The restaurant door makes a jingle, and The Russian walks in.
Catching sight of him, the hostess gives me a look that’s a mix of respect and envy.
I gape at my not-a-date, mentally downloading the image to my rub bank.
Dressed in a bespoke suit, he looks more like a Wall Street executive
