“Does it matter?” Ronan asked.
Elena kept both hands around her coffee cup.
Across the empty restaurant, Marco had gone so still that the towel in his hand no longer moved against the glass.
Elena looked from him to Ronan and seemed to understand, finally, that she had stepped across a line everyone else in Providence could see.
“Yes,” she said.
“But probably not for the reason you think.”
Ronan leaned back.
The restaurant had been closed for nearly twenty minutes.
Chairs were turned on tables near the front windows.
The kitchen had fallen quiet.
Rain tapped against the glass, and the only light came from the low lamps and candles Marco had not yet extinguished.
“When did you find out?” Ronan asked.
“After the wine.”
His expression hardened almost imperceptibly.
“Marco told you.”
Elena glanced toward the owner.
Marco suddenly became very interested in polishing the same glass.
“He didn’t exactly tell me,” she said.
“He spent ten minutes asking whether I had a death wish.
Then he told me never to surprise you, never to touch you without warning, never to ask personal questions, and never to repeat anything I heard at your table.”
Ronan looked at Marco.
Marco lowered his eyes.
Elena continued.
“It wasn’t difficult to figure out after that.”
“And you kept serving me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The question came out sharper than he intended.
Elena considered him for several seconds.
“Because the first thing I saw you do with all that terrifying power was save my job.”
Ronan’s jaw tightened.
“That doesn’t make me a good man.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
Most people rushed to reassure him.
They lied to survive.
They called him generous when he was useful, honorable when he was dangerous, misunderstood when they wanted something.
Elena did none of that.
She simply drank her coffee.
“You should be afraid of me,” he said.
“I’m not stupid, Ronan.”
It was the first time she had used his name without Mr.
Vale attached to it.
“I know enough to understand why Marco looks like he’s about to pass out every time I tease you.
I know people lower their voices when you walk into a room.
I know you didn’t get that reputation by being misunderstood.”
Marco closed his eyes briefly, perhaps in prayer.
“But?” Ronan asked.
Elena’s expression softened.
“But I also know you’ve been sitting at the same table every Thursday for months listening to me complain about buses and garlic and bad coffee.
You’ve never asked me for anything.
You’ve never touched me.
You’ve never used your name to make me do something.
And when I destroyed your table on my second night, you protected my job instead of humiliating me.”
“You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what people have done because of me.”
