DEREK
I didn’t stop for the cameras.
They flared like tiny suns as I stepped out of the black SUV, their shutters clicking rapid-fire.
Flashes bounced off the platinum buttons of my coat, off the trim of my collar, illuminating the sidewalk in sharp, artificial bursts. I walked straight through the chaos, ignoring the shouted questions—most about Elena, some about the Summit, one about the bottle of wine I’d ordered last time I was here.
I didn’t break stride.
Inside La Scala, the light changed. Dimmer. Softer. Cooler. The maître d’ smiled with studied precision.
“Mr. King,” he said smoothly. “Your table is ready.”
I followed him past tables lit with candlelight, past clinking glasses and murmured conversation. It was the kind of restaurant where powerful people came to be seen pre
