Part of me wonders if he plans his sentences out ahead of time, figuring out which words to mix in order to amuse and captivate. When you’re as dangerous and powerful as Micah you can afford to be silly.

The other part of me wishes he hadn’t mentioned my mother. But then, he always does. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t even know Micah.

Again he sips his martini. “Why the personal assistant job?”

I shrug. “It’s not a bad gig. It pays well, really well. And once it’s on my résumé that I worked for the Gables, I’ll be able to work for anyone.”

“As a personal assistant.”

“There are worse jobs.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “More than a few.” He looks around the restaurant and shakes his head. “I miss the days when you could smoke in restaurants. Don’t you? Do you smoke? I’ve never seen you light up, but maybe that’s because the fascists who run this city have made sure there’s no place where you can.”

I roll the stem of my glass between my fingers. “I don’t smoke.”

“Why not? You’re afraid it’s gonna kill you?”

“No, I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about what is or isn’t going to kill me. I just don’t like the taste.”

He studies me a moment before slowly shaking his head. “It’s why you wouldn’t do very well in my profession. I’ve never gotten the impression that you care much for your own life, Sweet. And in my business, if you don’t fear death you die.”

“But they die anyway . . . the people in your business.”

“Yes, but if they didn’t have that fear they’d die faster. The fear of death always extends a person’s life a little, even if it’s only by a few days . . . sometimes a few hours.”

“A few hours?” I laugh and shake my head. “Gee, what a privilege.”

“It is,” Micah says, his face completely serious. “Every minute of life is a gift. Do you know what happens to you after you die?”

I shake my head as a waiter pops a bottle of champagne for a couple celebrating a few tables over.