Another man approached us, and Xavier’s tension seemed to ratchet up seventeen notches. “My friend here is Alfredo Morosto,” Etienne told me. Then he chuckled and said something in French under his breath that made our new arrival laugh too, but caused Xavier to wince.

“Come.” Xavier pulled the chair out at the closest end of the table, gesturing for me to sit, and I sat down opposite Dauphine. I expected him to sit next to her, but he came around and took the seat on the other side of me, protecting me from having to sit next to either of the two older men. My shoulders relaxed slightly, relieved to have him between me and our lunch companions. Glancing briefly at the menu in French, I told Dauphine to order me whatever she was having to make it easier.

We both ended up with Shirley Temples, which earned me another eyebrow raise from Xavier.

The three men were talking earnestly, though they kept their voices low. Alfredo Morosto was a beefy man with a massive gold Rolex on his wrist. His shirt was unbuttoned to halfway down his torso, and a heavy gold chain lay against his gray chest hairs and years of over-tanned flesh. He glanced around the restaurant at least every five minutes. I couldn’t tell if he was looking for something or making sure no one was listening to them. I gave up trying to follow the language because it suddenly seemed like they’d switched to Italian, and while Dauphine and I played a game of hangman on the paper table setting, I watched their body language instead. It took a while, but suddenly I realized why Alfredo Morosto kept looking around. I thought maybe he wanted someone to see him, or more specifically to see who he was having lunch with. That was confirmed when he finally saw someone he knew and stood and clapped a young man in a pink polo on the back as they shook hands. Brief introductions were made to Xavier and his father. Dauphine and I kept playing, ignoring the visitors. The first greeting seemed to open the flood gates of people stopping by the table. There were a few curious gazes my way, but when I didn’t smile or catch anyone’s eye and directed all my attention to Dauphine, they lumped me in as the help soon enough.

Next to me, Mr. Pascale outwardly portrayed a calm exterior, but under the table, his one leg bounced incessantly in tiny movements. Stress seemed to pour off him in waves, though I had a feeling I was the only one who noticed.

Under the table, his fingers were making quiet, destructive work of a small paper placard that had stated the table was reserved when we first arrived. He’d already destroyed his paper coaster. Then he moved to picking at the hem of his shorts against his thigh, surreptitiously checking his watch.