Part 2 Someone at his left said his name. Maro turned. Celia went back to her station and stood very still with her hand on the counter.
Someone at his left said his name. Maro turned. Celia went back to her station and stood very still with her hand on the counter.
Thursday. Three days.
She did not know what to do with that.
Dinner ended at 10:15. Guests filed out in clusters. Tiepin and his companion among them, laughing now at something private. Celia cleared from the outside in. The sommelier packed his bag. Hannah waved good night from the doorway.
She was stacking the last of the bread plates when she realized she was not alone.
Alexis Maro was still at the table. One hand on the white cloth. The same quality of attention he had held all evening. He had not moved toward the door. He simply occupied the space until the room felt different than it had been before.
“You heard them.”
It was not a question. His English was precise, almost accent-free, with the faintest trace of something she could not place—Eastern European, maybe, sanded down over decades. The kind of voice that did not need to raise itself to fill a room.
Celia set the plate down. She looked at him directly, which she had learned not to do with guests, because direct eye contact made people feel scrutinized and scrutinized people tipped badly. There was no tip calculation happening now.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He almost smiled. It did not reach his eyes. A slight shift at the corner of his mouth that said he was not offended by the lie and was not going to pretend he believed it.
“Your French is very good. Québécois. Old school. Your family is from here.”
“My grandmother was from Lac-Saint-Jean.”
“And you grew up speaking it.”
She said nothing.
“The men at the end of the table said things that were not meant to be heard. They said them in French because they believed you would not understand. They were wrong.” He paused. “I want to know what you heard.”
She thought about being alone on the fourteenth floor with a man whose company she had never heard of, who had just told her—without quite saying it—that he already knew. The safe response was *I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re referring to.* Pick up the tray. Go home.
She also thought about the word Tiepin had used. The one that did not need translation.
“They were talking about Thursday,” she said. “A building on Beaubien. A problem that needed to be dealt with.” She met his eyes. “They used the word *régler*. In that context. With that tone. I grew up in this city. I know what that word means when it’s said like that.”
Something shifted. Not dramatically. The way air changes when a window opens far away.
“You’re not frightened.”
“I’m terrified. But I’m also standing here.”
He looked at her for a long moment. Not calculation. Something closer to the look of a man who had spent a long time in rooms full of people who told him what he wanted to hear and had just heard something different.
“Sit down.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re done working. I’ve already spoken to your manager. Sit down, Miss Fornier.”
She sat because the alternative was to keep standing, and her feet hurt, and the fact that he knew her name made arguing feel pointless.
“How do you know my name?”
“You have a name tag.”
She looked down. She did, in fact, have a name tag. She felt briefly ridiculous.
“Tell me exactly what you heard. Word for word.”
So she told him. She had always had a good memory for spoken language. It was part of what made her good at the job. She repeated the name, the street, the time. Maro listened without interrupting, without changing expression, without writing anything down.
When she finished, he was quiet.
“Do you understand what you’ve just told me?”
“I think so.”
“It means two of the men who sat at my table tonight are planning to move against my interests on Thursday without my knowledge or sanction.” A pause. “That is what you would call an internal problem.”
“That sounds like a significant understatement.”
Something almost like amusement crossed his face. “It is. Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
He looked at her steadily. “That is not a question you want the answer to, Miss Fornier.”
She thought about that. He was probably right. She was also sitting at a cleared banquet table at 10:30 at night having a conversation she would be processing for weeks.
“I’m not going to pretend I don’t understand the general shape of this,” she said. “I’m not an idiot. I heard what I heard. You know I heard it. And now you’re trying to figure out what to do with me. I’d appreciate it if you told me directly.”
Maro looked at her for a long moment.
“Most people would have pretended not to understand. Or panicked. Or both.”
“I’m tired. I’ve been on shift since three. I don’t have the energy for performance.”
He almost smiled again. This time it went slightly further.
“You’re very direct.”
“You’re the one who told me to sit down and then asked me what I heard. If you wanted indirect, you should have let me finish clearing the table.”
“Fair point.” He was quiet. Then: “What I’m going to do is have a conversation with the two men in question. The situation will be contained. As for you—you have a choice. You can leave this room and never speak of this. I give you my word that nothing will come of it. Or you can assist me.”
