Chapter 140: A Date
April’s mind raced, shifting through her memories of their past encounters. What did they agree on? She couldn’t recall making any formal appointments.
Seeing her blank, computing expression, Nat leaned down slightly, his wild eyes gleaming with an absolute, unyielding intent. "The date, sweetheart. We talked about it. And I want it now."
April’s grip on the silver gun hardened by a fraction. She stood there for a few seconds, silently weighing the mental energy required to fight his stubbornness versus simply complying.
Arguing with a mafia lord who treated rules like optional suggestions was a massive drain. Compliance, in this case, was thoroughly annoying but statistically faster.
Besides, she did make a promise and it was as a result of doing that to him, so yes, compliance was the only option in this case.
She let out a slow, thoroughly defeated sigh, her shoulders dropping slightly as she snapped the carbon fiber case shut. "Fine. Let’s go on a date."
What followed was Nat’s booming laughter. It rattled the glass paneling of the lane, sharp, manic, and full of victory. "Good choice, sweetheart. Let’s see how much of an appetite you’ve worked up by firing those rounds."
Nat didn’t take her to a conventional restaurant. The G-Wagon tore through the commercial district, eventually pulling up to the private rear entrance of a sky-high luxury hotel that overlooked the sweeping layout of the city.
April was so close to asking what they were doing in a hotel when he talked about appetite, but she shut her mouth and just watched.
When the gold-trimmed elevator doors dinged open on the top floor, April stepped out into a sprawling, glass-walled dining room.
The lights were dimmed perfectly, casting a soft glow over rows of empty white-clothed tables.
There wasn’t a single soul in sight. No background chatter, no clinking glasses, no ambient music. Just an immaculate, high-end kitchen staff standing at attention near the back, and two rows of heavy-suited security guards stationed at every single fire exit.
"Where are the patrons?" April finally asked, walking toward the center window.
"Bought out the floor," Nat said casually, tossing his leather jacket onto an empty chair. He pulled out a seat for her, his eyes locked onto her face. "I told you, when I’m out with you, I don’t like distractions. If some rich bastard drops his fork two tables over while you’re talking to me, I’m liable to throw him out the window. This is much more peaceful."
April was forced to think back to the last time they had a meal together. Sure, he hadn’t bought out the place then, but she recalled noticing how he had a peculiar habit of drowning out every now and then, his forehead creasing and his wild eyes glinting in sharp annoyance. She had just assumed at the time that he didn’t like the food much.
But now that she thought about it, in all those past moments, there had always been a trigger. Someone nearby had made a loud remark and laughed boisterously; someone had dropped their cutlery on a ceramic plate hard enough to make it clatter loudly; or pairs of feet had shuffled past their table with too much noise.
It was as if the chaotic hum of ordinary life was deeply irritating to him—so much so that he would rather eliminate the source of the noise than endure it. Yet, for her sake, he had held his peace back then, gritting his teeth just to keep the moment intact.
Sitting down in the chair he held out, April looked around at the sheer absurdity of locking down an entire five-star rooftop establishment just to avoid the sound of a dropping fork or nearby laughter.
His volatile behavior was very erratic. Yet, as she looked out at the brilliant, sprawling city lights below, completely insulated from the roar of the streets, she had to admit the total silence was incredibly comfortable.
Soon, the dishes began to arrive. It wasn’t standard restaurant fare; Nat had ordered a massive, chaotic feast of everything from premium wagyu steaks to delicate, high-end seafood platters, completely disregarding any concept of a traditional course menu.
"Eat up," Nat grinned, leaning his chin on his hand as he watched her pick up her utensils. "You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over, and you’re gonna need the stamina."
April didn’t comment and began to eat at her usual steady, unhurried pace. The food was spectacular—rich, savory, and perfectly prepared.
As she chewed, Nat began laying out the exact logistics for the black-market trading network starting next week. His wild, unhinged demeanor smoothly shifted into the sharp, terrifying competence of an underworld sovereign.
He detailed the digital frequencies, the private physical auction houses hidden beneath the shipping docks, and how they would mask her massive transactions, as well as her identity if that was what she wanted.
April found herself listening intently. She leaned forward slightly, her eyes tracking his hand gestures as he explained how to bypass the city’s financial tracking systems.
Whenever he threw out a complex logistical problem, she would chime in with a flat, direct solution based on her knowledge of the future collapse, and Nat would laugh, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, brilliant excitement.
It was bizarre. He was a certified psychopath, a man who found genuine entertainment in violence and chaos, yet his raw, unfiltered honesty was strangely grounding.
In a world full of people lying to themselves every passing day, Nat was completely awake, dragging her right into his chaotic rhythm without making her feel the need to hide her own bizarre and selfish nature.
Every man for himself, Nat stated. And every man who looks to protect himself first and foremost always lives to the end to tell the tale.
It was a very selfish remark, and yet, it was so very true.
For a moment, as April tasted a delicate piece of truffle-infused chicken, her mind flashed back to the plan she had formed the previous day in the car.
The food here was so good that she had to think about how she was going to eat something like this regularly and comfortably even after the world ended.
"Whatcha thinking about, sweetheart?" Nat asked, noticing how she suddenly went quiet and was staring ahead with a serious expression.
He rested his fork against his plate, his sharp eyes tracking the shift in her face. "Is it about the trade next week?"