The restaurant Mario had chosen for their business dinner was tucked away in the leafy, historic enclave of Inman Park. It was a restored brick foundry from the early 1900s, its raw industrial architecture preserved with black steel beams, exposed heart-pine columns, and low, amber lighting that cast long, dramatic shadows. It was the kind of high-end, exclusive establishment where Atlanta’s power players came to negotiate deals away from the prying eyes of Buckhead.
Maya sat across from Mario at a secluded booth in the corner, her posture straight, her iPad propped up on the dark oak table. A waiter in a crisp charcoal apron had already poured them two glasses of a robust, deep red Barolo, the complex scent of cherry and leather drifting between them.
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