“Even if Tony is determined to try to make something out of this story, it isn’t happening,” he proclaims.
“If I wanted to make something of it?” I retort. “If I’d wanted to make something of it, I would have done so when it happened.”
He carries on as if I haven’t spoken. “There are no witnesses to what happened, anyway.”
“What about me?” Brittany shoots back indignantly.
Rice’s tone is dismissive when he replies, “You’re a child. Your father has poisoned your mind against your mother. We’re talking about his word against Michelle’s in a court of law, for God’s sake. A serial liar who should be in jail for his time at Sphinx! His word against my daughter’s?” he says after leveling a finger at me. A harsh laugh escapes him as he sneers and mockingly challenges me to “Bring it on.”
I ignore him and lock eyes with Michelle. “You didn’t tell Daddy about my visit to the hospital?”
“High drama!” Rice exclaims as he slams a fist on the table again and turns his malicious eyes on me. “Angling to get a piece of my fortune by faking an injury? Hell, even for you, boy, that’s pathetic.”
“That’s right,” I shoot back. “I faked thirteen stitches and a third-degree grease burn.”
His eyes widen a smidgen. I guess Michelle didn’t give him all the details. I’m happy to.
“The ER doctor didn’t buy our little story about how the frying pan slipped,” I continue. “She wasn’t fooled. She referred the matter to the police and recommended a battery complaint. They talked to me, you know. I’m sure there’s a record.” How would throwing that out in court square with avoiding any public unpleasantness, asshole?
The potential embarrassment of my going public with this tale lands on Daddy Rice and his daughter like a sucker punch. I can all but hear the gears grinding in their minds as they seek a way to turn this to their advantage. Good luck with that. Rice throws his napkin down, stands, and commands his wife and daughter to follow as he stalks out of Gadsby’s.
“Guess we won, huh?” Brittany says with a sheepish grin.
I smile back. “What were you doing reading through that lawsuit?”
“You should be careful where you leave things. You’re not mad at me, are you?”
I slap my hand over hers and squeeze. “Of course not. Thanks for sticking with me.”
“No worries,” she says breezily.
It’s a nice sentiment, but I know better than not to worry about her future. Especially with the Rice family gunning for me. Not that she needs to waste time worrying about her future. That’s my job.
“Just stay the hell out of my stuff,” I say gruffly, making sure to temper the admonishment with a wink.
Chapter Twenty
I should have done this a long time ago, I think while Trish Pangborne sashays away from our intimate table for two at Cité, “Elegant Dining at the Top of Lake Point Tower,” which is on the seventieth floor of an exclusive condominium tower along the lakefront. The restaurant had been Trish’s idea, and it’s a great choice—especially at our window table. She had tactfully declined the first table the hostess had brought us to, pointing down at the bright lights and the Ferris wheel of Navy Pier as she protested, “Oh, please, not a Navy Pier view.” She’d then wrinkled her nose in distaste as she touched the woman’s arm and stage-whispered, “There’s nothing romantic in that view, is there?”
I take the liberty of ordering a second glass of wine for each of us when our server returns. Wine is one of the many things I know crap about, but Trish has selected something from somewhere in Germany… or maybe France? From some river in Europe that starts with the letter R, anyway. Then I sit back and enjoy the view framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows while I await Trish’s return. Our table looks down on the sweep of Lake Shore Drive curving away south across the Chicago River with the skyline rising above it. The mirrored interior walls reflect the blue-and-gold accent lighting and the outside view back onto the glass, casting a decidedly soft and romantic ambience on the crisp, white linen tablecloth and intimate candlelight that flickers from within a low crystal holder. Even the polished stainless-steel utensils that reflect the lighting seem to have been chosen to complement the mellow mood.
I’m enjoying spending time with someone who’s completely removed from my current routines and stressors. Joe’s visit is a week in the rearview mirror, all appears to be copacetic in Italy, and I got through Friday the thirteenth not only unscathed, but with something of a victory over Prescott Rice. I’m in a good place tonight.
Trish is an attorney who works at Fleiss Lansky, a big corporate law firm where I plied my trade for a few months last year. They fired me because they didn’t like the optics of my defending an alleged murderer (my father) while also waging a very public battle to save our neighborhood from the wrecking ball. Fleiss Lansky also played a big role in funding the startup of our law firm. Penelope negotiated a substantial settlement after filing a wrongful-dismissal lawsuit on my behalf. The law firm is, of course, where Trish and I met. She made no secret of her interest in me, and I certainly took notice of her. Who wouldn’t? Trish is an alluring woman in her mid- to late thirties, petite, with lustrous wheat hair that hangs to the middle of her back. Her almond-shaped hazel eyes are mesmerizing, especially with the candlelight flickering in them. Tonight she’s wearing a silky, deep-blue, knee-length dress that suggests rather than advertises the subtle curves beneath it. A delicate gold necklace is draped around her throat, and diamond earrings dangle an inch or so beneath her earlobes. Her glistening hair picks up highlights from the lighting as it bounces gently
