Just then, Cassian’s assistant called Vincent back, saying the private suite had already been booked by one of Mr. Rhodes’s friends.
Vincent watched as the hostess practically rolled out the red carpet for Anastasia and her group. If he couldn’t connect the dots at this point, he’d have to be brain-dead. His face went dark as he followed behind, but once they reached the dining room, he plastered on a fake smile so the Lewises wouldn’t pick up on the tension.
Cassian’s private suite was on a completely different level. While it was roughly the same size as the other rooms, the décor screamed luxury. Instead of walking straight into a dining area, you entered through an impressive gallery wall displaying museum-quality art and collectibles. It created this air of exclusivity and ensured total privacy even if people walked by.
None of this stuff was knockoff crap—every single piece was worth more than most people’s cars. These were basically bribes from people trying to get on Cassian’s good side. The pieces he actually liked went to his penthouse, the rest ended up here.
Past the gallery was a gorgeous live-edge walnut table surrounded by six Italian leather chairs—perfect for when Cassian and his inner circle got together. Anastasia had been here before, so she wasn’t fazed by the setup. Vincent and the others were like tourists at their first Broadway show, gawking at everything with their mouths hanging open.
Mr. Lewis felt this weird mix of awe and inadequacy. He’d always thought he was doing pretty well for himself, and he’d never been the type to get a big head because he knew there were always sharks in bigger ponds. But standing here made him realize that Cassian’s leftovers were treasures to him. He had a hell of a long way to go before he could play in this league.
Vincent was even more blown away by his boss’s insane wealth. Any one of these “decorations” could probably buy a mansion in his hometown. Once they sat down, servers started bringing out dishes that made their previous meal look like cafeteria food. Fresh-caught lobster, dry-aged steaks, imported truffles—stuff that Vincent, as a regular working stiff, had only seen on cooking shows. Even Mr. Lewis, who’d been around the block, felt like this spread was a bit much.
“Anastasia, did you order all this?” Vincent whispered, panicking about the bill. He sure as hell wasn’t covering the overage!
Anastasia knew exactly what was happening—Cassian had obviously gone overboard because he was worried she wouldn’t eat well. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got the extra cost covered,” she said casually.
Vincent’s jaw clenched. Of course Little Miss Thing can throw money around now that she’s got Griffin Orlando wrapped around her finger. Must be nice. But he kept his mouth shut.
“Your dinner is served. Please enjoy,” the server announced.
Mr. Lewis flagged down the server and whispered, “Hey, what’s the damage on this meal? I’d like to take care of it. These people are all on salaries—how much could they possibly afford? Just being able to eat here was already way beyond their pay grade.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir. Everything’s been taken care of by the owner,” the server replied smoothly.
“The owner?”