Chapter 5 #2
As we walk to the entrance together, it’s not lost on me that we have three very different histories, four with Moretti’s family in the States, from Italy— all of us eating at the same table. In comparison to what’s happening globally, in a way, we should all be very thankful.
“Well, shit,” Marshall whispers when we walk into the private dining room at The Bridgeview.
High ceilings. Linen so crisp it makes you feel underdressed even in a sport coat that costs more than most people’s rent.
Soft lighting that doesn’t flatter so much as it’s meant to soften to make it feel more intimate.
This isn’t a room you eat in by accident.
It’s a room you book when you want to be taken seriously.
Marshall exhales again, quieter. “This is a message.”
I chuckle under my breath. “Welcome to the pros, kid.”
He shoots me a look. “You say that like this is normal.”
“It becomes normal,” I assure him. “Once you stop noticing how ridiculous it is.”
Faulker steps past us, scanning the room. “You’ll get used to it, or you won’t. Either way, the rooms don’t change.”
Marshall blinks. “This is… insane.”
Faulker glances back, eyebrow lifting a fraction. “Insanity only sets in if you think this is the norm.”
I shake my head, “And that, somehow, makes it worse because this is the norm for him.”
“I heard that,” he calls back.
“Wasn’t a lie,” I call back.
Marshall lets out a short laugh, half disbelief, half nerves.
“Bar?” I ask heading that way.
“Absolutely.”
As we head that way, Moretti stops us and introduces us to his parents. They seem kind.
When we finally step away, I see Claudia with Savannah against her chest, her mother’s —for a lack of any label, which I love that they are not needed amongst this group— fussing over the child.
Sofie Fairfax is right there too, wine in hand, posture immaculate.
She’s talking with Claudia, voice light, public-facing.
The kind of tone people use when they know they’re being seen.
I try to steer Faulker and Marshall in a different direction, but am unable without making the avoidance look obvious, and with her cohorts off to the side, catching everything on video, I decide not to make it so.
I hate that she’s under my skin, that I fucked my fist to her last night…
and again this morning. That she’s not my type at all, I like women thicker than she is, broader, more meat on their bones.
But fuck if I can’t admire her beauty. She’s wearing a dark gray silk dress, mid-length, not short and sexy.
It moves when she does, catches the light just enough to remind you it’s expensive without begging for attention.
Long sleeves, high neckline. Her heels are pointed, practical in the way rich women pretend to be practical.
Her jewelry is minimal. A thin gold chain at her throat, small hoops.
Nothing that clinks or flashes. Her hair is down, shoulder-length in loose waves, and tucked behind one ear.
Her makeup isn’t her Icehouse look either.
It’s understated, precise. Skin perfect.
Eyes sharp. Mouth neutral for now… until she decides otherwise.
I’ve seen this before. Moscow rooms where women dressed to disappear and dominate at the same time. Sofie isn’t trying to impress anyone at the table. She’s dressed to withstand them.
When she smiles, it’s measured. When she laughs, it’s quiet.
She’s always aware of where she is in the room, who’s watching, and who might be.
I clock the tension in her shoulders, the way it never entirely leaves.
Something more hits, her dress isn’t soft because she needs comfort.
It’s structured because she needs certainty.
Armor polished until it looks effortless.
I respect that, and I hate that I do.
I don’t have to lean in to hear.
“My sisters went to the parade,” Sofie says casually. “Which changed brunch to dinner. Five o’clock.”
“That’s good,” Claudia replies. Then, without missing a beat, “You should invite your father. No reason for him to be alone.”
Sofie stiffens.
Just a fraction. A micro-pause. Her shoulders lock before she smooths it out, a smile already back in place.
“Oh, he’s fine,” she says easily. “He’s got people there.”
People. Not family.
“You good?” Faulker asks, calling my attention back to them.
“Are you?” I snap and don’t mean to. He chuckles as he hands me a glass of wine, and I scowl at him, “Wine?”
“It’s a holiday, shut up and pretend to be less of an ass.” Then he nods to Sofie’s entourage. “The redhead, she looks familiar?”
I know that tone, he’s asking if he or I have fucked her. It’s not a team rule that we don’t hook up with the same girls, but in undergrad at Yale, we… shared the women who wanted to be with both of us. We’ve not done that since, so now it’s an unspoken rule. “Not to me.”
“She’s an Icehouse girl, yes?”
“She may have been there last night with Fairfax, but she’s not a regular to my knowledge.” His lips tip up. “Not here,” I warn. “Not now.”
“I’m pretty sure I know her, little wild one.”
“She’s Fairfax adjacent. I wouldn’t be dipping into that again unless you plan to disrupt the proverbial apple cart at home with your fiancée.”
Marshall nearly chokes, “You’re engaged?”
Faulker rolls his eyes, “Betrothed… ish.”
“What in the eighteenth-century bullshit is that?” Marshall laughs.
I smile thinly. “It’s how people like Faulker say ‘this is not a love story.’”
Faulker lifts his glass, perfectly unimpressed. “For the record,” he says dryly, “it’s Faulker von Hohenwald, of Hohenwald Estate.” He pauses just long enough to make it even more ridiculous. “Do try to bow appropriately.”
Marshall stares. “You cannot be serious.”
Faulker’s lips tip up. “I never am.”
That’s the actual truth.
“Sounds more Harry Potter than royalty,” Marshalls says. I know nothing of this Potter, so the subject is not of interest.
While Marshall bombards him with questions, I glance over and see Deacon adjust Savannah’s blanket, thumb brushing her cheek in a way that’s unconscious and very real. Lydia leans in to murmur something soft. Maya laughs quietly.
The picture is complete.
Kyle Dingy is not here. This room is absolutely for him.
For the record. For the photos that will circulate.
For the story that will stick. Because Kyle wanted nothing to do with Savannah when it mattered.
And now, suddenly engaged to a woman whose father owns the LA hockey team, he wants proximity. Optics. Redemption without effort.
This shuts that down, and Sofie Fairfax is making it happen.
We take our seats, the table filling with low conversation, glasses catching light.
Savannah ends up on Deacon’s lap, tiny hand curling around his finger like she’s claiming him.
He lets her. Doesn’t correct it. Doesn’t joke it away.
He wants this, maybe even more than he wanted to move from second back to first line.
Before the first course arrives, Deacon stands.
The room quiets immediately. He waits until it does. Another choice.
“Before anyone eats,” he says, calm, steady, “and before Savannah decides she’s going to run this dinner,” that gains a few laughs.
“We wanted you all to know that we’re getting married Christmas Eve at two p.m. We want you all there, our family, the people who matter.
And we’re asking that no one let it leak.
Whatever we want shared, Sofie and her team will handle it.
So obviously that means you’re all invited,” Deacon adds. “Which means expected.”
Applause breaks out, clean and earned.
Deacon looks down at Savannah and presses a kiss to her head without hesitation.
Not symbolic. Not performative. Real. This is what matters, not Kyle’s sudden interest, not his engagement, not his scrambling to be part of Savannah’s —Malyshka’s— life for public praise.
This. He made a choice and it was not to be part of Claudia and Savannah’s lives.
Their story has moved on without him. I hope this makes it perfectly clear to him, and he backs the fuck off. Piece of shit.
We’re all seated, and Deacon says grace.
I am relieved that Tsarina is not across from me, which would have been my luck, or unluck.
I clock Hank the second the first course hits the table.
He’s trying to play it cool. He’s not fooling anyone who’s paying attention.
The soup is poured tableside, butternut squash.
Hank leans back slightly, and it’s obvious this isn’t something he’s used to, or perhaps he thinks the bowl might do something if he moves too fast. He waits until the server clears before he picks up his spoon, eyes tracking the surface like he’s bracing.
He takes a bite, and his eyebrows lift, just a fraction, surprise flashing before he reins it in. He chews carefully, nods once to himself like he’s recalibrating expectations on the fly.
Okay. So that’s happening.
I keep my expression neutral, eyes down. I grew up eating to survive, not to admire. But I know precision when I taste it.
Hank mutters, “I didn’t know soup could do that.”
I almost smile.
The next course lands, pears and burrata arranged like art. Hank straightens, glances at the plate, then at me, like he’s checking whether there’s a right way to start.
I give him nothing. He goes for it anyway. Halfway through the first bite, his eyes close, just for a second.
I watch him file it away.
When the mains arrive, turkey carved clean, potatoes smooth, no lumps.
He looks pleased, like home has arrived.
By the time dessert arrives, he doesn’t react at all. He just eats.
This isn’t about the food. It’s about being comfortable outside of your norm, outside of your comfort zone.
About being wanted at the table and longing to be at another.
He’s probably wondering why he’s here while others are not.
Deacon, the only remaining player from the buyout, our veteran brought him into our circle off the ice just as he did Faulker and me, that means something, and one day Hank will get that it means family can be found and not just blood bound, too.