A tower of lobster thermidor, dripping butter onto the rack of oysters on the half-shell laid out on ice beneath it.
Pan-seared scallops in a creamy mint sauce.
Lobster fettucine with paper-thin slices of truffle shaved on top.
Everything looks just as good as it smells. Phoenix accepts a bottle of wine from one of the servers and pours out two glasses. Then he nods and the two men slink off without a word.
He offers me a glass and I take it reluctantly.
“What would you like to start with?” he asks, gesturing at the dishes.
I’m still cagey after the argument ended so abruptly. “Whatever you want. You’re in charge, aren’t you, tough guy?”
He nods slowly. “Then I suggest starting with the oysters,” he says. “You look like you need a good meal.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’v
