[Comes the wry response, because he hasn't exactly given her cause to draw her Beretta. The night is young.
Rafe is a smart man - like her he must be able to identify the pull, like two magnets placed in proximity, something fascinating and disastrous. Evelyn has always found herself drawn to danger and it seeps from him as though he has been doused in it, like a particularly strong cologne, or gasoline. She wants to explore it further, posthaste.
Watching him shell out easy money for his own place of business is amusing - a kindness to the servers, no doubt - Evelyn eyes the motion, the peculiar cadence of his movements. It almost has a rhythm to it, something so cultivated as to almost appear natural. Performance art in real time. He offers her his hand and she slips hers into his palm without hesitation, curious as to their roughness: fine, small abrasions from hard work or handguns, perhaps both. Barely-raised, thin lines of scar tissue. By comparison her fingers must seem so soft, sparser calluses from working with surveying equipment in the desert.
Clever euphemism. He might get lucky.]
Very. [She stands, genteelly moving past pleasantries when she loops her arm in his, expecting to be escorted properly.] I'm interested in what your city has to offer.
[ Rafe chuckles at what's surely anything but an idle threat, imagining nothing more lethal than a long and sharp hatpin hidden in that handbag. (If only he knew; his mouth would be watering even more.) Yes, her hand is terribly soft in his own and all the smoother for the scant few academic's calluses he can feel — though not for long as Evelyn tucks herself against his side. Much as he laments the loss of her hand (and promises himself a more thorough examination later) it's an equitable trade-off and he crooks his arm for her all good and proper, his other hand coming to rest on her elbow with a smile. ]
New York's got everything to offer, [ he corrects, no small amount of pride coloring his voice. His city. God, but he likes the sound of it. Can hardly wait until it's true in every sense of the word. ] The only question's how much time a body's got to take advantage of it all.
[ Once they step outside it takes no time at all for his car to be brought round, though the "valet" that exits the car is markedly broader than the other boys waiting by the door and in a pinstriped suit to boot. A quick word is had after he helps Evelyn into the passenger seat, rapid-fire Italian in quiet tones before Rafe claps the bruiser on the shoulder and crosses to the driver's side. The engine purrs to life and they pull away from the curb and into the night.
Drumming his fingers on the wheel, Rafe considers the substantial possibilities available to them, late hour notwithstanding. When in doubt he always falls back onto the cardinal sins for inspiration. Lust is certainly at the fore but is probably best tabled for now, which brings him to the old standby— ]
[Lucky for them, she has all the time in the world. The museum hasn't yet learned how to utilise her to the best and most effective of her capabilities, and until her pushing nets her more responsibility she is happy to spend her free hours better learning the city and all its dark corners.
Like a gentleman he bends his elbow, allowing her to adjust the contact however she prefers as he leads her outside. Handbag slung over her other arm she might hazard to say they paint a remarkable picture, dark-haired figures in collusion. He helps her into an automobile that, frankly, would leave her older brother salivating. Jonathan has always had an affinity for the industry and while Evelyn appreciates the convenience of them, she never learned to drive.
Apparently it isn't an issue for Rafe.]
Starving.
[The valet looked more like muscle, his figure retreating behind them, hulking and formidable. Perhaps not a body guard, but something similar. Americans are so odd.
Luxuriating on leather seats she eyes the delicious curl of his fingers around the steering wheel, the quirk of his mouth as he presses for more speed. There is something altogether mischievous in the smile she sends his way.]
You wouldn't happen to know any excellent local establishments that are open this late, would you?
[ Cars are a more recent luxury but one that Rafe latched onto soon as they had the means. Half the reason and the one he gave was because if there was anything that spelled out the future, it was these babies; the other half, the one he kept to himself, had to do with the rumble of metal and pistons firing under his feet and the slick smell of petrol curling in his nose. Judging from his passenger's reaction, she seems to understand the appeal.
Then again maybe that smile is solely because of Rafe and oh... Hell, but that smile is going to get him into trouble. (He can hardly wait.) ]
Do I happen to know— [ He laughs, a dark and rich sound that matches the rest of him. ] Miss Evelyn, I know you're new to our sunny shores but one of the things you're gonna learn is that this city? Don't sleep.
[ The proof of that statement is all around them. Traffic is light but trickles steadily around them with Broadway gleaming in the distance, a hundred thousand bulbs crackling electric under the stars. Even with the late hour it's all alive and raring and ready to be taken for all that can be had.
Rafe debates their options, wonders if he may as well steer clear for Times Square where Horn & Hardart await with as many choices as a body with a nickel could think of but an automat? Not the first impression he's gunning for. Murray's would still be swinging but that place has been on the outs and for someone of Evelyn's expertise, the Gardens would seem even more hackneyed than it already was. These and more scroll through his head but the longer he takes, the longer to get there, the greater the odds he'll have to strong-arm a suitable place into staying open for them. Headwaiters always got a weird look on their face when threatened, all bug-eyed and gasping like a—
Now there's an idea. ]
How you feel about seafood? Darb or ice?
[ May be late where a restaurant's concerned, but the day's only just begun for the fishmongers and their best customers. ]
[Rhetorical question. He seems so unabashedly proud of his city, and is apparently one of the local landed gentry, as it were, so he therefore becomes the best source of intelligence with regards to politics and entertainment alike. The culinary arts are always iffy when spending time with new people - you never truly know how cultured a palate is until you see its interests firsthand - but he knows his way about town and looks thrilled to engage her for as long as he can.
It's really all she could ask for, when she never expected to spend her evening like this in the first place. Pleasant surprises all around.
She watches the lights of the city, thousands of them glittering so much brighter than those in London, as they stream past the automobile windows before winking out into darkness behind them.]
Copacetic.
[Turning away from the glass to look at him, elbow propped against the car door and fingernail lingering over a lip, Evelyn smiles again.]
I confess I'm actually rather curious about the cuisine here. I haven't had much exposure to it, yet.
The thing about New York cuisine's simple, really. [ Rafe's tone veers toward the professorial, happy to impart the knowledge to an admittedly eager mind. ] Toss a dart at the map and you can get it here, and done up better than the original.
[ Boasting? Eh, maybe a little, but the claim holds water. A brisk walk from Park Row to Washington Street would see you well supped on anything from dumplings to baklawa and everything in between. Manhattan holds all corners of the world within its narrow shores— Or least all the corners that mattered most, none more than his own corner.
Which is where he takes them, turning north with the looming black of Central Park on their left and the breeze off the East river on their right. Rao owes him an extra favor after that mix-up at the tailor and a generous helping of greenbacks will make up the difference. With a concrete plan to act on, he relaxes. Leans back in the seat, arm propped against the door with a single lazy hand on the wheel.
Like as not, the driver studiously following a couple cars behind them is likewise relaxing now that Rafe is angling for home territory. The family isn't so large (yet) to warrant a bull's-eye on his back, or at least not a very large one. Still, it doesn't hurt nothing to be careful. ]
Already I told you. New York's got everything. It all depends on what you want and how bad you want it.
["Better than the original" is a steep claim to make, and one that has her raising an eyebrow at him across the way. He isn't a braggart, but God, is he proud - perhaps both of his own origins in whatever city his family came from, and the one in which he was raised. These are Rafe's streets through and through, a confidence in the leisurely way he drives downtown, fond smile hovering over his lips.
Even neutral, he seems to entertain wry amusement in his expression, something which makes Rafe's company deliciously humourous. On anyone else it might look snide, even arrogant, but he gives it an approachability. Effortless. Easy.
She isn't, but he certainly makes her want to be.
The car slows and she leans toward the glass, catching trims and storefronts as they slide by before the negative space of crisp letters over a glowing window rolls into view. It is echoed by the sign lit up against the cornice. A corner establishment, bright red. Rao's.]
I should have known better than to wonder where an Italian might take me to dinner.
[They crawl to a stop and she glances at the side-mirror, watching quietly as another vehicle pulls up against the sidewalk not far behind them. The man from the club, who retrieved Rafe's automobile. An apparently diligent and dedicated employee. Or a bodyguard.
Evelyn doesn't see the need to wait for him to open her door, far too self-sufficient for formalities when she's out and about without an official escort. She slips into the brisk night air, reticule over her wrist, admiring the intimate venue. It's small, and frankly looks as though it is closing up for the evening.]
You said you hadn't had a chance to get at the town yet. Figured may as well start with the best.
[ He toes that line on arrogance but blunts it with that sly grin again. While he still hustles out the car with an eye to help Evelyn with the step-down, he's privately pleased to see her take care of it herself — though given all else tonight, he supposes surprise would be a bit much.
Though in all honesty, Rafe has to say he was hoping for a bit of dress to be caught in the act and flash him a bit of leg. A damn shame but then again... Night's still young.
The pinstripe in the car almost reaches for his own door but Rafe stares a hole into him over Evelyn's head. They're in safe territory here, they both know as much, and he doesn't need Saverio cramping his style any by coming inside with them. So he stares until he receives a nod of acknowledgment and he sees the big mug pull out a newspaper. He'll have to remember to get something else done up in a bag for him, make up for the trouble of sitting til his ass goes numb. ]
Don't worry about it.
[ Gallantly offering his arm again, he leads Evelyn not to the front door but past the building and around the corner into an alley. The salty tang of fresh fish wafts out of the back of a truck being hastily unloaded by half a dozen hands jawing in Rafe's mother tongue so he calls out in kind. ]
Hey, trova Luigi per me, devo parlargli. [ A sour chap with a Charlie Chaplin mustache replies with a gesture that can't be anything but rude, but Rafe is undeterred. ] Digli che è Rafael Alieri riguardo a quel favore.
[ There's that same reaction as earlier in the bar. Suddenly all around are wide shocky eyes and the mouthy one sends off a slack-jawed youngster with a curse and a slap to the back of a head. He's back in less than two shakes, trailed by drugstore cowboy, dressed to the nines and every peacock feather ruffled something fierce. Rafe pats Evelyn's hand and extricates himself to chat with the proprietor for a minute. Quiet, fervent snatches of Italian drift over before Louie throws his hands up in clear surrender. He tosses around orders to the boys as Rafe retrieves Evelyn and they follow the goof in glad rags through the kitchen to a table. ]
[Evelyn is a linguist, certainly, but her interest lies largely in the kinds of languages that haven't been used in centuries. She picks up bits and pieces - fragments, really - of what Rafe says as they step around a late-night delivery truck reeking of the ocean. He wants to talk to Luigi. He wants a favor.
Loitering in the back alley of an eatery in a city she doesn't know all that well Evelyn should feel less safe, but Rafe gives off the impression of familiarity and ease. This is his bread and butter: a quick chat with the owner of an establishment. She half expects money to change hands for a service given the locale. He excuses himself and lets her linger under the scrutiny of the workers, stepping over to examine the crates leaking seawater a offering the mixed company and guileless smile.
Better to look more unassuming than she is.
They're arguing, or debating - it's difficult to tell which, but it is spirited. Eventually the well-dressed restaurateur submits and Rafe's arm loops in hers once more.]
Really?
[Evelyn asks innocently, whisked past butcher blocks and stove tops. The table isn't set but the cloth is still draped over it, and she takes a seat with an air of veiled interest.]
Because it looks as though you may have strong-armed that gentleman into serving us after close.
Who, this guy? Nah, we go back a-ways, don't we, pal? [ Rafe claps an amiable hand on Louis's shoulder and the mook has enough sense to give a smile in response. ] Speaking of— Almost forgot my manners. Miss Evelyn Carnahan, Louis Rao of the East Harlem Rao. This is his place, as you may have guessed from those big shiny letters on the window.
[ Louis Rao may have been put off-balance by the sudden shift in his evening, but not so much that he fails the fairer sex, and a customer to boot. The charm is laid on thick as Rafe settles himself in the seat next to Evelyn and it's cut short as Rafe shoots him a look. Hospitality is one thing but a cake-eater like Louie's apt to take it too far. ]
Start us off with a bottle of white, some bread with the anchovies, and... [ He sucks his teeth as he considers what he saw coming off the truck. ] Fried calamari and that clam toast you trotted out the other week, huh?
[ Louis compliments his selection smooth as any fancy frilled maitre'd (bastard must've been learning from those French fucks at the Waldorf-Astoria) and begs for a moment to relay the order to the kitchen (and get a list of what the chef can actually put together at this time of night). But before he can slink off again, Rafe snaps his fingers. ]
Merda. [ It's more reminder to himself than annoyance with Louis but the man jumps regardless. Another thing he almost forgot and it's back to Italian. ] E dare uno schiaffo a un bel panino o qualcosa insieme, sì? Ho un uomo che trascorre la serata con l'Herald là fuori, non ho bisogno dello stomaco per essere amichevole con la sua spina dorsale, va bene?
[ Sì, naturalmente, Mister Alieri. Right away. And with that, he's through the swinging doors to the back and the sound of clattering pans and more Italian curses. To an unlearned ear, it could be alarming, but to Rafe's? Nah. He can tell it's nothing more than the usual storm of swearing that accompanies a real Italian meal. With that out the way, he focuses his attentions back on more pleasant subjects. ]
Case you didn't notice, I take my duties as city ambassador very seriously.
[Louis Rao is the sort of svelte, well-dressed man that girls are told to avoid: a charming streak a mile wide, compliments dripping from his tongue as he assists in pushing her chair in while Rafe settles. Espousing flattery can only get one so far, and he seems to quiet at a look from her dining companion. Almost delicately, she leans on the table with her elbows, fingers laced, a cradle for her chin. The verbal and nonverbal transaction between customer and proprietor is fascinating; Rao scrapes as though he owes Rafe a favour, and she can only imagine what.
After hearing a truly startling array of starter dishes and another smooth delivery of Italian Evelyn drags her gaze away from the wainscoting on the walls to the bridge of Rafe's nose, to his pale eyes.]
Are we having dinner, or a banquet?
[She asks playfully, watching him. He took the seat next to her for a reason, arm cast over the back of the chair, the portrait of laissez-faire leisure. Several tables beyond him she hears the sounds of clattering in the kitchen, but it doesn't draw her attention the way that his smile does. A predator, still. Waiting.
Evelyn has to wonder whether all of this is meant to impress her knickers off or if he's the first man in the states thus far to look past her décolletage. She shifts in her chair, brushing knees as she turns to him. A quiet invitation.]
Surely you don't wine and dine every newcomer to New York City.
[Perché non entrambi? After all, Rafe's convinced by now that whatever layers tucked under the dress have got to be at least as nice as that dipping neckline and that's to speak of everything else waiting underneath that. The obvious appreciation shows in his eyes as they travel along said neckline and he doesn't bother hiding it one bit when he returns Evelyn's steady gaze. Rafe lets his arm dangle off the back of his chair as he mirrors her, twisting to face Evelyn and propping his chin on the heel of his hand, one finger tapping idle at his temple. ]
Oh, of course not, [ he agrees with mock solemnity. ] Only the very important personages get this kind of treatment.
[ Said solemnity, mind, does not extend past the tablecloth. After all Rafe could hardly deny an invitation like that and he doesn't plan to, neatly hooking his ankle around hers. It's far from all he'd like to do but it would be terribly bad form to start something only to be interrupted by the appetizers. ]
Besides you said you were starving. Can't have that ruining my reputation, or that of my fair city. So we start off with the couple little bites I already ordered, then move onto the good stuff.
[ It could almost be an innocent statement if not for...well. Everything aside from his pointedly mild tone. The gleam in his eye. The sharp slice of his smile. That magnetic attraction that still tugs insistent between them. ]
[Doubtful that she ranks among the city's brightest and most desirable Evelyn is content, for now, to be desirable to at least one person, whose vulpine smile is as tempting as the rest of him. Rafe takes the bait and she feels the brush of fabric against stocking'd skin, the press of a shin along the back of her calf. It's refreshing to be admired so blatantly and so she lets him look.
They continue to circle each other.
She has an idea of what the good stuff entails, and it isn't unwanted. A girl has needs, after all, though she already knows she won't be acquiescing to anything this evening for the express purpose of vetting his interest and investment. Rafe seems like an astute businessman, however, and she trusts that he wouldn't waste his time on frivolous endeavours if he didn't intend to follow through. Reputation is everything to him, a commodity to be maintained and kept clean.]
What is it you do, exactly? [She asks without prompting, never one to dance around a subject if she can help it.] Besides managing gin joints and entertaining charming visitors from abroad?
[ Lets, his olive ass. Evelyn all but dares him to look and Rafe has never been able to back down from a challenge, especially one posed as prettily as this. His calf casually slides up and down a silk-clad calf and hell, but he wishes he could investigate just how sheer it is, how its softness compares to the flesh underneath. As for the rest of this evening...
Yes, Rafe is a businessman and no stranger to a hard sell. Every party enters a negotiation with some ready-drawn lines in the sand they absolutely refuse to cross but he's never let that stop him before. Certainly isn't going to start now now, and it's because he's noticed a funny thing about sand. It's pretty goddamn easy to brush right on through those lines. ]
I help run the family business — import/export sort of stuff. [ Wiggling his fingers in the universal sign of eh before letting his hand swing freely again. ] Mostly import, to be honest. Started out with specialty meats and delicacies from the old country but we've been expanding.
[ It's all true even if it's not all the truth. The Alieris had begun with nothing but a small butcher's shop, and have since diversified their portfolio from salted pork out of Parma — to Scotch whisky down from Canada, with funds thereof and from other questionably legal enterprises funneled through to peddle influence and favors where they'll do the most good.
Rafe learned early on that the best lies are like a well-hemmed pair of pants: carefully tucked to show only what you want people to see without tripping yourself up. ]
Hence the restaurants and gin joints with their very entertaining visitors from abroad.
[ It's the sort of line that would pair perfectly with a quiet toast, a careful sip while never losing eye contact over the rim of a glass.
Louie picks the perfect moment to reappear and bless his heart, he's tucked his balls back into his pants from wherever they'd scrammed and manages to scroll rather than scurry. Best for all involved given the tray he's toting. A basket of bread is slid in front of them, followed by matching ramekins of creamed butter and anchovies in oil, then joined by two glasses of white wine. Rao offers Evelyn the cork for her olfactory edification while Rafe takes a sniff of his glass to make sure this is the real shit, not some bathtub knockoff meant for lesser customers. Satisfied to be getting his money's worth, he nods Louie off back to the kitchen before tapping Evelyn's glass with his own. ]
[Trade, then. Like modern day merchants. It is an entrepreneurial air that she can admire, particularly given that it seems to be so commonplace amongst Americans. There is a dream here, of independence and self-sufficiency. Its people certainly corroborate the impression: all swagger and substance alike, full of unearned confidence and a boldness that her world so lacks.
No man from home would dare to rub ankles under the table like this - particularly not one whose family works with groceries. The foreign nature alone doesn't explicitly make it appealing, either. It is that he clearly comes from circumstances so very different from hers, and is striving tooth and nail to always be more than a factory worker, or a shopkeep.
He's ambitious.
Evelyn takes the cork at his prompting, interested in the scent. Familiar with nothing more than French wines she finds the bouquet intriguing, setting it aside as their little table is accosted with food and glasses.]
Cheers.
[The flavour is satisfying all the way down, light and dry, the tail end a bit like peaches. An excellent choice. Carefully setting her drink aside she reaches for the bread and a little butter knife.]
Were you born here? Or did you come from Italy with your family?
[ Less tooth and nail, more fang and claw — though for now both remain retracted to make for more palatable company. Nothing Rafe has ever laid hands on has ever come easy, everything up to and including that confidence more than earned through sweat and blood. (That the blood has only occasionally been his own is a minor detail.) Besides, audaces fortuna iuvat and all. And there's still a lot of fortune he's aiming to get before he's done. ]
Nah. You're looking at a hundred-percent homegrown Americano right here. My parents met this side of the ocean and the rest, as they say, is history.
[ Where Evelyn is fastidious, Rafe tears a piece of bread for a smaller chunk to dip straight in the oil then over to the anchovies, catching a sliver of fish on the jagged edge before popping it in his mouth. ]
And what about your family, huh? I remember you mentioned a brother but. [ His eyes gleam with good humor even as he inquires with all seriousness: ] Am I speaking with somebody a few steps off the throne or does being queen of whatever room you're in just come naturally?
[Rafe knows she has money, can smell it on her from a mile away like a shark catching blood, but his needlessly elaborate courtship is so different from every other suitor who recognized the luxury of her perfume that she can let down a wall or two, to make the garden more inviting. Fortune-hunters who stalk the social clubs during the season have a hunger of another kind, dressing it up with frippery and insincere smiles.
He's quite funny, which is a fact he also seems to know very well, and she wonders whether he pulls out all the stops with every single, pretty face that frequents the bar he manages. He can't be, though - he could, but he can't be, too interested in imperfect perfectionism, every rumple in his suit deliberate, every motion a choice, a cultivation.
Evelyn scrapes a piece of fish from the plate onto her bread with the knife, rewarding the eloquence of his compliment with a smirk.]
Homegrown.
[The taste is fresh, crisp, salty, and followed with a satisfied pull of the wine Rafe selected before she continues.]
We're a little distant from the Crown, but a very old family with an estate in Mentmore, just outside London. With that said- [Here she leans close, a clear challenge.] I also answer to Lady Evelyn.
[ She tosses a gauntlet and Rafe catches it before it can hit the ground, leaning in just as close with a glass in hand and an easy-going grin. His shoe skates higher up Evelyn's calf and he feels it catch on the seam of her stocking. ]
Oh, I can think of a few other things to call you, la mia incantevole marchesa. [ He shifts from one language to the other seamlessly, knowing there's enough romantic crossover for the general meaning to get across without some heavy-handed translation bumping them off track. ] Look forward to runnin' you through the list.
[ It's an implicit promise past dinner, past tonight, and one Rafe has every intention of keeping. Whether Evelyn believes it or not is irrelevant; he already knows he'll put in the time to make it plain enough to dispel any doubt.
Louis reappears then, somehow still manages to saunter while balancing a full platter out to the table. Calamari, battered and fresh out the fryer; clams steaming in their shell and crisp pancetta, served on thick slices of brown bread studded with seeds and drizzled with soffritto; and butterflied branzini crusted in herbs. Louis opens his mouth to explain each dish but Rafe cuts him off with a glare that hardly matches the benign thanks he offers, and the murmured Italian that the boys in back are free to head home now.
The smile he turns to Evelyn is sincere again, almost apologetic for the interruption but pleased to be back on track. ]
Never been to London. How's it compare?
[ Conversational, light, wanting to hear the sound of her voice and hoping it's distraction enough that she doesn't notice the switchblade suddenly in his hand. Branzini are delicious and Rao's does them up right but there's nothing that can kill a romantic mood like choking on a fishbone. ]
[The toe of Rafe Alieri's dress shoe catches, briefly pulling at silk before he skims to cover more territory. As brazen as he is like this, she has to imagine his restraint is legendary - control in most endeavours, a leash wrapped tight around desire until he lets loose the hound. The compliment is sweet, genuine, and deliciously warm spoken in his mother tongue, similar enough to what she knows that it draws an almost shy smile from her.
Evelyn would very much like to hear the rest of that list, and the emphasis has her thinking he isn't expressly here for something quick and dirty. She supposes they wouldn't be having a late dinner were that the case, anyway.
The arrival of the meal is a welcome respite and smells like a Godsend. There are ingredients she recognises through sight and smell, but the preparation is utterly alien and looks more tempting than she can describe. Under normal circumstances culinary explorations of this caliber would run a pretty penny - particularly for foreigners - but he takes to it like someone accustomed to eating in such a fashion every night. Whether he actually does remains to be seen, but-]
It's busy.
[The easy answer, and one she makes as she notices the flash of silver in his hand, a knife that doesn't belong on the table but in a gentleman's jacket pocket. Evelyn refrains from pointing it out and continues, snapping open her handbag. The fish are fraught with little bones.]
There are similar neighbourhoods of different groups - Jews, Italians, the Chinese, among others. The city is very old, but in its age I think it has life rather than austerity. As with anywhere, the docks are full of rowdy sailors and the streets are more and more crowded with automobiles.
[With a small but elegant flick, the blade of an ivory-handled knife darts from her hand and she prises a thin rib from the filet, delicately setting it aside.]
Its singular advantage over American cities is that it hasn't suffered the influence of the temperance union.
[ London must be a little more than just busy if the gentlemen of that town are out packing steel. A lot more for the ladies to apparently be doing the same. Rafe had tried to be slick in his motions, as if it's just another bit of cutlery out the kitchen and nothing to worry about, but then... Oh. Oh, then there's a matching blade in Evelyn's hand and Rafe can't help but stare, his foot going slack against her calf.
The description she offers is taken in a haze as his mind reels, blinking stupidly as this posh little dame with an estate in Mentmore and only some distance from the King of England handles her knife with poise. A hell of a lot more poise than anything Rafe's laying claim to before he snaps back to the conversation and out of the sudden desire to feel that edge press against his throat.
Shit. And he thought that nose was gonna be the death of him. ]
Fair enough, although. You can't deny there are some advantages to the teetotalers.
[ Taking a cue from Evelyn, who clearly has no qualms showing off hers, Rafe spears a piece of fish on the tip of his knife and pops it in his mouth. He takes his time to chew it, and even more time to delicately dab a napkin at his mouth before he continues. ]
Without the local drum, where else would I be finding company like this?
[ There is some small amount of satisfaction to be had in the way the pressure against her calf suddenly freezes, lessens, and very nearly retreats. It's a variety of shock, but a pleasant one. She might even hazard to call it delighted surprise, based upon the loft of his eyebrows and the sudden sharpness in his pale eyes. That very same hunger she recognised across the little table in the gin joint. What a delicious tête-à-tête she can drop offhandedly when she gets home, to her no doubt amused brother. I met an Italian today, she'll say, hanging up her coat in the foyer. Terrifically handsome. Probably dangerous. I startled him so badly I thought I might have broken him. ]
I suppose you wouldn't have met me at all.
[ Evelyn says, tone light and airy. Careless, in the way that the aristocracy is wont to be. Of the two of them, Rafe has the better hand, the greater advantage. He knows the city, knows how to pander to women, but doesn't yet know what sort of dalliance he may be entering. Or perhaps he does, and enjoys the thrill of a challenge. Perhaps he already knows the extent of her interest. It certainly isn't as though she's being subtle.
Evelyn taps the tip of her knife on her plate, a quiet tink tink tink as she mulls over his statement, the circumstances. ]
Judging by your laissez-faire attitude on the subject, however, one has to wonder. How often is it that you get raided by the Treasury Department? Run afoul of the constabulary?
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uncalendula) wrote2017-12-07 11:15 pm
no subject
[Comes the wry response, because he hasn't exactly given her cause to draw her Beretta. The night is young.
Rafe is a smart man - like her he must be able to identify the pull, like two magnets placed in proximity, something fascinating and disastrous. Evelyn has always found herself drawn to danger and it seeps from him as though he has been doused in it, like a particularly strong cologne, or gasoline. She wants to explore it further, posthaste.
Watching him shell out easy money for his own place of business is amusing - a kindness to the servers, no doubt - Evelyn eyes the motion, the peculiar cadence of his movements. It almost has a rhythm to it, something so cultivated as to almost appear natural. Performance art in real time. He offers her his hand and she slips hers into his palm without hesitation, curious as to their roughness: fine, small abrasions from hard work or handguns, perhaps both. Barely-raised, thin lines of scar tissue. By comparison her fingers must seem so soft, sparser calluses from working with surveying equipment in the desert.
Clever euphemism. He might get lucky.]
Very. [She stands, genteelly moving past pleasantries when she loops her arm in his, expecting to be escorted properly.] I'm interested in what your city has to offer.
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New York's got everything to offer, [ he corrects, no small amount of pride coloring his voice. His city. God, but he likes the sound of it. Can hardly wait until it's true in every sense of the word. ] The only question's how much time a body's got to take advantage of it all.
[ Once they step outside it takes no time at all for his car to be brought round, though the "valet" that exits the car is markedly broader than the other boys waiting by the door and in a pinstriped suit to boot. A quick word is had after he helps Evelyn into the passenger seat, rapid-fire Italian in quiet tones before Rafe claps the bruiser on the shoulder and crosses to the driver's side. The engine purrs to life and they pull away from the curb and into the night.
Drumming his fingers on the wheel, Rafe considers the substantial possibilities available to them, late hour notwithstanding. When in doubt he always falls back onto the cardinal sins for inspiration. Lust is certainly at the fore but is probably best tabled for now, which brings him to the old standby— ]
You peckish?
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Like a gentleman he bends his elbow, allowing her to adjust the contact however she prefers as he leads her outside. Handbag slung over her other arm she might hazard to say they paint a remarkable picture, dark-haired figures in collusion. He helps her into an automobile that, frankly, would leave her older brother salivating. Jonathan has always had an affinity for the industry and while Evelyn appreciates the convenience of them, she never learned to drive.
Apparently it isn't an issue for Rafe.]
Starving.
[The valet looked more like muscle, his figure retreating behind them, hulking and formidable. Perhaps not a body guard, but something similar. Americans are so odd.
Luxuriating on leather seats she eyes the delicious curl of his fingers around the steering wheel, the quirk of his mouth as he presses for more speed. There is something altogether mischievous in the smile she sends his way.]
You wouldn't happen to know any excellent local establishments that are open this late, would you?
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Then again maybe that smile is solely because of Rafe and oh... Hell, but that smile is going to get him into trouble. (He can hardly wait.) ]
Do I happen to know— [ He laughs, a dark and rich sound that matches the rest of him. ] Miss Evelyn, I know you're new to our sunny shores but one of the things you're gonna learn is that this city? Don't sleep.
[ The proof of that statement is all around them. Traffic is light but trickles steadily around them with Broadway gleaming in the distance, a hundred thousand bulbs crackling electric under the stars. Even with the late hour it's all alive and raring and ready to be taken for all that can be had.
Rafe debates their options, wonders if he may as well steer clear for Times Square where Horn & Hardart await with as many choices as a body with a nickel could think of but an automat? Not the first impression he's gunning for. Murray's would still be swinging but that place has been on the outs and for someone of Evelyn's expertise, the Gardens would seem even more hackneyed than it already was. These and more scroll through his head but the longer he takes, the longer to get there, the greater the odds he'll have to strong-arm a suitable place into staying open for them. Headwaiters always got a weird look on their face when threatened, all bug-eyed and gasping like a—
Now there's an idea. ]
How you feel about seafood? Darb or ice?
[ May be late where a restaurant's concerned, but the day's only just begun for the fishmongers and their best customers. ]
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It's really all she could ask for, when she never expected to spend her evening like this in the first place. Pleasant surprises all around.
She watches the lights of the city, thousands of them glittering so much brighter than those in London, as they stream past the automobile windows before winking out into darkness behind them.]
Copacetic.
[Turning away from the glass to look at him, elbow propped against the car door and fingernail lingering over a lip, Evelyn smiles again.]
I confess I'm actually rather curious about the cuisine here. I haven't had much exposure to it, yet.
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[ Boasting? Eh, maybe a little, but the claim holds water. A brisk walk from Park Row to Washington Street would see you well supped on anything from dumplings to baklawa and everything in between. Manhattan holds all corners of the world within its narrow shores— Or least all the corners that mattered most, none more than his own corner.
Which is where he takes them, turning north with the looming black of Central Park on their left and the breeze off the East river on their right. Rao owes him an extra favor after that mix-up at the tailor and a generous helping of greenbacks will make up the difference. With a concrete plan to act on, he relaxes. Leans back in the seat, arm propped against the door with a single lazy hand on the wheel.
Like as not, the driver studiously following a couple cars behind them is likewise relaxing now that Rafe is angling for home territory. The family isn't so large (yet) to warrant a bull's-eye on his back, or at least not a very large one. Still, it doesn't hurt nothing to be careful. ]
Already I told you. New York's got everything. It all depends on what you want and how bad you want it.
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Even neutral, he seems to entertain wry amusement in his expression, something which makes Rafe's company deliciously humourous. On anyone else it might look snide, even arrogant, but he gives it an approachability. Effortless. Easy.
She isn't, but he certainly makes her want to be.
The car slows and she leans toward the glass, catching trims and storefronts as they slide by before the negative space of crisp letters over a glowing window rolls into view. It is echoed by the sign lit up against the cornice. A corner establishment, bright red. Rao's.]
I should have known better than to wonder where an Italian might take me to dinner.
[They crawl to a stop and she glances at the side-mirror, watching quietly as another vehicle pulls up against the sidewalk not far behind them. The man from the club, who retrieved Rafe's automobile. An apparently diligent and dedicated employee. Or a bodyguard.
Evelyn doesn't see the need to wait for him to open her door, far too self-sufficient for formalities when she's out and about without an official escort. She slips into the brisk night air, reticule over her wrist, admiring the intimate venue. It's small, and frankly looks as though it is closing up for the evening.]
Are you certain it's still open?
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[ He toes that line on arrogance but blunts it with that sly grin again. While he still hustles out the car with an eye to help Evelyn with the step-down, he's privately pleased to see her take care of it herself — though given all else tonight, he supposes surprise would be a bit much.
Though in all honesty, Rafe has to say he was hoping for a bit of dress to be caught in the act and flash him a bit of leg. A damn shame but then again... Night's still young.
The pinstripe in the car almost reaches for his own door but Rafe stares a hole into him over Evelyn's head. They're in safe territory here, they both know as much, and he doesn't need Saverio cramping his style any by coming inside with them. So he stares until he receives a nod of acknowledgment and he sees the big mug pull out a newspaper. He'll have to remember to get something else done up in a bag for him, make up for the trouble of sitting til his ass goes numb. ]
Don't worry about it.
[ Gallantly offering his arm again, he leads Evelyn not to the front door but past the building and around the corner into an alley. The salty tang of fresh fish wafts out of the back of a truck being hastily unloaded by half a dozen hands jawing in Rafe's mother tongue so he calls out in kind. ]
Hey, trova Luigi per me, devo parlargli. [ A sour chap with a Charlie Chaplin mustache replies with a gesture that can't be anything but rude, but Rafe is undeterred. ] Digli che è Rafael Alieri riguardo a quel favore.
[ There's that same reaction as earlier in the bar. Suddenly all around are wide shocky eyes and the mouthy one sends off a slack-jawed youngster with a curse and a slap to the back of a head. He's back in less than two shakes, trailed by drugstore cowboy, dressed to the nines and every peacock feather ruffled something fierce. Rafe pats Evelyn's hand and extricates himself to chat with the proprietor for a minute. Quiet, fervent snatches of Italian drift over before Louie throws his hands up in clear surrender. He tosses around orders to the boys as Rafe retrieves Evelyn and they follow the goof in glad rags through the kitchen to a table. ]
See? No problem.
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Loitering in the back alley of an eatery in a city she doesn't know all that well Evelyn should feel less safe, but Rafe gives off the impression of familiarity and ease. This is his bread and butter: a quick chat with the owner of an establishment. She half expects money to change hands for a service given the locale. He excuses himself and lets her linger under the scrutiny of the workers, stepping over to examine the crates leaking seawater a offering the mixed company and guileless smile.
Better to look more unassuming than she is.
They're arguing, or debating - it's difficult to tell which, but it is spirited. Eventually the well-dressed restaurateur submits and Rafe's arm loops in hers once more.]
Really?
[Evelyn asks innocently, whisked past butcher blocks and stove tops. The table isn't set but the cloth is still draped over it, and she takes a seat with an air of veiled interest.]
Because it looks as though you may have strong-armed that gentleman into serving us after close.
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[ Louis Rao may have been put off-balance by the sudden shift in his evening, but not so much that he fails the fairer sex, and a customer to boot. The charm is laid on thick as Rafe settles himself in the seat next to Evelyn and it's cut short as Rafe shoots him a look. Hospitality is one thing but a cake-eater like Louie's apt to take it too far. ]
Start us off with a bottle of white, some bread with the anchovies, and... [ He sucks his teeth as he considers what he saw coming off the truck. ] Fried calamari and that clam toast you trotted out the other week, huh?
[ Louis compliments his selection smooth as any fancy frilled maitre'd (bastard must've been learning from those French fucks at the Waldorf-Astoria) and begs for a moment to relay the order to the kitchen (and get a list of what the chef can actually put together at this time of night). But before he can slink off again, Rafe snaps his fingers. ]
Merda. [ It's more reminder to himself than annoyance with Louis but the man jumps regardless. Another thing he almost forgot and it's back to Italian. ] E dare uno schiaffo a un bel panino o qualcosa insieme, sì? Ho un uomo che trascorre la serata con l'Herald là fuori, non ho bisogno dello stomaco per essere amichevole con la sua spina dorsale, va bene?
[ Sì, naturalmente, Mister Alieri. Right away. And with that, he's through the swinging doors to the back and the sound of clattering pans and more Italian curses. To an unlearned ear, it could be alarming, but to Rafe's? Nah. He can tell it's nothing more than the usual storm of swearing that accompanies a real Italian meal. With that out the way, he focuses his attentions back on more pleasant subjects. ]
Case you didn't notice, I take my duties as city ambassador very seriously.
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After hearing a truly startling array of starter dishes and another smooth delivery of Italian Evelyn drags her gaze away from the wainscoting on the walls to the bridge of Rafe's nose, to his pale eyes.]
Are we having dinner, or a banquet?
[She asks playfully, watching him. He took the seat next to her for a reason, arm cast over the back of the chair, the portrait of laissez-faire leisure. Several tables beyond him she hears the sounds of clattering in the kitchen, but it doesn't draw her attention the way that his smile does. A predator, still. Waiting.
Evelyn has to wonder whether all of this is meant to impress her knickers off or if he's the first man in the states thus far to look past her décolletage. She shifts in her chair, brushing knees as she turns to him. A quiet invitation.]
Surely you don't wine and dine every newcomer to New York City.
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Oh, of course not, [ he agrees with mock solemnity. ] Only the very important personages get this kind of treatment.
[ Said solemnity, mind, does not extend past the tablecloth. After all Rafe could hardly deny an invitation like that and he doesn't plan to, neatly hooking his ankle around hers. It's far from all he'd like to do but it would be terribly bad form to start something only to be interrupted by the appetizers. ]
Besides you said you were starving. Can't have that ruining my reputation, or that of my fair city. So we start off with the couple little bites I already ordered, then move onto the good stuff.
[ It could almost be an innocent statement if not for...well. Everything aside from his pointedly mild tone. The gleam in his eye. The sharp slice of his smile. That magnetic attraction that still tugs insistent between them. ]
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They continue to circle each other.
She has an idea of what the good stuff entails, and it isn't unwanted. A girl has needs, after all, though she already knows she won't be acquiescing to anything this evening for the express purpose of vetting his interest and investment. Rafe seems like an astute businessman, however, and she trusts that he wouldn't waste his time on frivolous endeavours if he didn't intend to follow through. Reputation is everything to him, a commodity to be maintained and kept clean.]
What is it you do, exactly? [She asks without prompting, never one to dance around a subject if she can help it.] Besides managing gin joints and entertaining charming visitors from abroad?
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Yes, Rafe is a businessman and no stranger to a hard sell. Every party enters a negotiation with some ready-drawn lines in the sand they absolutely refuse to cross but he's never let that stop him before. Certainly isn't going to start now now, and it's because he's noticed a funny thing about sand. It's pretty goddamn easy to brush right on through those lines. ]
I help run the family business — import/export sort of stuff. [ Wiggling his fingers in the universal sign of eh before letting his hand swing freely again. ] Mostly import, to be honest. Started out with specialty meats and delicacies from the old country but we've been expanding.
[ It's all true even if it's not all the truth. The Alieris had begun with nothing but a small butcher's shop, and have since diversified their portfolio from salted pork out of Parma — to Scotch whisky down from Canada, with funds thereof and from other questionably legal enterprises funneled through to peddle influence and favors where they'll do the most good.
Rafe learned early on that the best lies are like a well-hemmed pair of pants: carefully tucked to show only what you want people to see without tripping yourself up. ]
Hence the restaurants and gin joints with their very entertaining visitors from abroad.
[ It's the sort of line that would pair perfectly with a quiet toast, a careful sip while never losing eye contact over the rim of a glass.
Louie picks the perfect moment to reappear and bless his heart, he's tucked his balls back into his pants from wherever they'd scrammed and manages to scroll rather than scurry. Best for all involved given the tray he's toting. A basket of bread is slid in front of them, followed by matching ramekins of creamed butter and anchovies in oil, then joined by two glasses of white wine. Rao offers Evelyn the cork for her olfactory edification while Rafe takes a sniff of his glass to make sure this is the real shit, not some bathtub knockoff meant for lesser customers. Satisfied to be getting his money's worth, he nods Louie off back to the kitchen before tapping Evelyn's glass with his own. ]
Salut.
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No man from home would dare to rub ankles under the table like this - particularly not one whose family works with groceries. The foreign nature alone doesn't explicitly make it appealing, either. It is that he clearly comes from circumstances so very different from hers, and is striving tooth and nail to always be more than a factory worker, or a shopkeep.
He's ambitious.
Evelyn takes the cork at his prompting, interested in the scent. Familiar with nothing more than French wines she finds the bouquet intriguing, setting it aside as their little table is accosted with food and glasses.]
Cheers.
[The flavour is satisfying all the way down, light and dry, the tail end a bit like peaches. An excellent choice. Carefully setting her drink aside she reaches for the bread and a little butter knife.]
Were you born here? Or did you come from Italy with your family?
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Nah. You're looking at a hundred-percent homegrown Americano right here. My parents met this side of the ocean and the rest, as they say, is history.
[ Where Evelyn is fastidious, Rafe tears a piece of bread for a smaller chunk to dip straight in the oil then over to the anchovies, catching a sliver of fish on the jagged edge before popping it in his mouth. ]
And what about your family, huh? I remember you mentioned a brother but. [ His eyes gleam with good humor even as he inquires with all seriousness: ] Am I speaking with somebody a few steps off the throne or does being queen of whatever room you're in just come naturally?
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He's quite funny, which is a fact he also seems to know very well, and she wonders whether he pulls out all the stops with every single, pretty face that frequents the bar he manages. He can't be, though - he could, but he can't be, too interested in imperfect perfectionism, every rumple in his suit deliberate, every motion a choice, a cultivation.
Evelyn scrapes a piece of fish from the plate onto her bread with the knife, rewarding the eloquence of his compliment with a smirk.]
Homegrown.
[The taste is fresh, crisp, salty, and followed with a satisfied pull of the wine Rafe selected before she continues.]
We're a little distant from the Crown, but a very old family with an estate in Mentmore, just outside London. With that said- [Here she leans close, a clear challenge.] I also answer to Lady Evelyn.
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Oh, I can think of a few other things to call you, la mia incantevole marchesa. [ He shifts from one language to the other seamlessly, knowing there's enough romantic crossover for the general meaning to get across without some heavy-handed translation bumping them off track. ] Look forward to runnin' you through the list.
[ It's an implicit promise past dinner, past tonight, and one Rafe has every intention of keeping. Whether Evelyn believes it or not is irrelevant; he already knows he'll put in the time to make it plain enough to dispel any doubt.
Louis reappears then, somehow still manages to saunter while balancing a full platter out to the table. Calamari, battered and fresh out the fryer; clams steaming in their shell and crisp pancetta, served on thick slices of brown bread studded with seeds and drizzled with soffritto; and butterflied branzini crusted in herbs. Louis opens his mouth to explain each dish but Rafe cuts him off with a glare that hardly matches the benign thanks he offers, and the murmured Italian that the boys in back are free to head home now.
The smile he turns to Evelyn is sincere again, almost apologetic for the interruption but pleased to be back on track. ]
Never been to London. How's it compare?
[ Conversational, light, wanting to hear the sound of her voice and hoping it's distraction enough that she doesn't notice the switchblade suddenly in his hand. Branzini are delicious and Rao's does them up right but there's nothing that can kill a romantic mood like choking on a fishbone. ]
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Evelyn would very much like to hear the rest of that list, and the emphasis has her thinking he isn't expressly here for something quick and dirty. She supposes they wouldn't be having a late dinner were that the case, anyway.
The arrival of the meal is a welcome respite and smells like a Godsend. There are ingredients she recognises through sight and smell, but the preparation is utterly alien and looks more tempting than she can describe. Under normal circumstances culinary explorations of this caliber would run a pretty penny - particularly for foreigners - but he takes to it like someone accustomed to eating in such a fashion every night. Whether he actually does remains to be seen, but-]
It's busy.
[The easy answer, and one she makes as she notices the flash of silver in his hand, a knife that doesn't belong on the table but in a gentleman's jacket pocket. Evelyn refrains from pointing it out and continues, snapping open her handbag. The fish are fraught with little bones.]
There are similar neighbourhoods of different groups - Jews, Italians, the Chinese, among others. The city is very old, but in its age I think it has life rather than austerity. As with anywhere, the docks are full of rowdy sailors and the streets are more and more crowded with automobiles.
[With a small but elegant flick, the blade of an ivory-handled knife darts from her hand and she prises a thin rib from the filet, delicately setting it aside.]
Its singular advantage over American cities is that it hasn't suffered the influence of the temperance union.
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The description she offers is taken in a haze as his mind reels, blinking stupidly as this posh little dame with an estate in Mentmore and only some distance from the King of England handles her knife with poise. A hell of a lot more poise than anything Rafe's laying claim to before he snaps back to the conversation and out of the sudden desire to feel that edge press against his throat.
Shit. And he thought that nose was gonna be the death of him. ]
Fair enough, although. You can't deny there are some advantages to the teetotalers.
[ Taking a cue from Evelyn, who clearly has no qualms showing off hers, Rafe spears a piece of fish on the tip of his knife and pops it in his mouth. He takes his time to chew it, and even more time to delicately dab a napkin at his mouth before he continues. ]
Without the local drum, where else would I be finding company like this?
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I suppose you wouldn't have met me at all.
[ Evelyn says, tone light and airy. Careless, in the way that the aristocracy is wont to be. Of the two of them, Rafe has the better hand, the greater advantage. He knows the city, knows how to pander to women, but doesn't yet know what sort of dalliance he may be entering. Or perhaps he does, and enjoys the thrill of a challenge. Perhaps he already knows the extent of her interest. It certainly isn't as though she's being subtle.
Evelyn taps the tip of her knife on her plate, a quiet tink tink tink as she mulls over his statement, the circumstances. ]
Judging by your laissez-faire attitude on the subject, however, one has to wonder. How often is it that you get raided by the Treasury Department? Run afoul of the constabulary?