15

John, without a second's hesitation, replied in a deep, professional voice. "No, sir. I don't recall seeing you tonight. I hope you're having a great evening elsewhere." John's look at Daniel was one of complete loyalty and understanding. It was a testament to his invisibility, a confirmation that, to the bar's records and any future audit, Daniel had never been there, much less consumed a fortune in exclusive food and drink. For Elara, it was further, clear and disturbing, proof of the extent of Daniel's influence. He didn't pay bills; he made them disappear.

Daniel nodded to John, a nod of approval. The manager bowed almost imperceptibly and withdrew as discreetly as he had appeared. Daniel picked up the bottle of wine that had been served with the oysters—a vintage Elara recognized as extremely rare and expensive, and which was still nearly full, having not been properly opened with a corkscrew. He took her hand, gently pulling her to her feet. Elara, still in shock from what she had witnessed, allowed herself to be guided.

The exit from the club was as fluid as the entrance. As the crowd pressed in and security guards maintained tight control at the main door, Daniel and Elara, with the bottle of wine in Daniel's hand—still sealed, untouched—slid down a side corridor used only by employees or very specific VIPs. There was no line, no questioning. It was as if the very structure of the building opened up to them.

As they descended in the private elevator, which took them directly to the underground garage, the air of exclusivity and the surreal nature of Daniel's evening only increased. The valet, the same one who had greeted the Bugatti, was already waiting for them at the elevator door. He wasn't holding a ticket or a key. He was simply standing there.Bugatti The Black Car, which glowed under the garage lights, an elegant spectrum of black and white.

When Elara saw the car, the scale of Daniel's wealth and the extent of his control began to sink in. It wasn't just a car; it was a statement. It was the pinnacle of automotive engineering, a vehicle costing millions and so rare that few had even seen it in person. The sealed bottle of wine in Daniel's hand, the nonexistent bill, the car waiting—it all added up to a picture of absolute power.

Daniel opened the passenger door for Elara, a gesture of chivalry that contrasted with the coldness of his recent displays. Elara slid into the white leather seat, the softness of the material and the scent of luxury enveloping her. Daniel walked around the car and took the driver's seat. The W16 engine roared softly to life, a deep, controlled melody filling the space.

"There's a restaurant where I love the food," Daniel said, his voice a murmur against the purr of the engine as he maneuvered the Bugatti out of the private garage and onto the less crowded city streets. "Shall we go?" He didn't wait for Elara's answer, but dropped the name like bait, knowing in advance the reaction it would provoke. "It's theChef's Table at Brooklyn Fare."

Elara's eyes widened. She was a foodie, familiar with New York's temples of haute cuisine. Chef's Table was a legend, a three-Michelin-star restaurant, famous for its omakase tasting menu and, even more so, for its legendary exclusivity. "I read about this restaurant!" Elara exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine surprise and excitement. "You have to book a year in advance! It's impossible to get a reservation!"

Daniel laughed softly, the sound deep and resonant. He drove the Bugatti with a mastery that transformed the car into an extension of his own body, gliding through the streets of Manhattan toward the Brooklyn Bridge. "This is for ordinary people, Elara," he said, his voice laden with a calm that almost defied logic. The phrase was a reminder that he operated on a different plane, where the rules imposed on the "ordinary" simply didn't apply. He didn't make reservations; he created opportunities.

The conversation continued, and with each mile traveled, the intimacy between them deepened. Elara felt as if she were floating in a lucid dream, captivated by the aura of quiet power and the promise of a world where anything was possible. The cat had caught the mouse, and the mouse now yearned for more. The night was far from over.

The Bugatti La Voiture Noire glided through the nighttime streets of New York, a silent black specter crossing the avenues, the city lights glinting off its polished bodywork. The conversation inside the vehicle, however, was anything but silent to Elara. Her mind raced, trying to process the torrent of events that had unfolded in a matter of minutes—the film catapulted to stardom, the promised lead role, the white truffle ice cream materializing out of thin air. Daniel's power was undeniable, overwhelming. But a mundane, almost banal thought pierced the haze of her awe.

She glanced at the glass of whiskey Daniel had emptied at the rooftop bar, then at the sealed bottle of wine he casually held. "Daniel," Elara began, her voice a thin edge that barely competed with the gentle purr of the Bugatti engine, but which carried an urgency in her concern. "And now that I remember, you drank. What if the police stop us?" She gestured vaguely to the street ahead, where an NYPD patrol car passed, its lights flashing in a hypnotic rhythm, almost like an ominous reminder of reality. The irony wasn't lost on her: she had just witnessed the man rewrite the script of her career, and now she was worried about a traffic violation.

Daniel turned his head slightly toward her, a small smile playing on his lips, almost condescending, but without arrogance. "Worried about the law, Elara?" He laughed softly, a deep, comforting sound. "Laws are for those who need them to maintain order. And for those who don't know how to move in the shadows." He didn't elaborate, but the answer was implicit in the calmness of his gaze. The NYPD, like film critics and restaurant managers, operated under a script Daniel could edit at will. His hands steady on the carbon fiber steering wheel, the untouched bottle of wine on the center console, were silent witnesses to his absolute control. If a patrol car pulled them over, Daniel wouldn't need an alibi; he simply wouldn't be stopped. His influence was an invisible bubble that shielded them from mundane inconveniences.

The drive to Brooklyn was a plunge into another side of New York. The lights of Manhattan dimmed in the rearview mirror, and the landscape shifted to Brooklyn's more historic and artistic streets. The Bugatti, a UFO amidst the ordinary traffic, attracted stares, but Daniel drove as discreetly as he operated, avoiding unnecessary attention. The Brooklyn Bridge, an architectural marvel of lights and cables, welcomed them into its immensity, the city behind them a shimmering panorama that now seemed like a distant dream.

Finally, they arrived in Downtown Brooklyn. Chef's Table at Brooklyn Fare wasn't a place advertised with flashy signs or grand facades. On the contrary, its entrance was almost anonymous, hidden on a busy street, a discreet steel door with a small, elegant embossed logo, easily mistaken for the entrance to an office or an art gallery. There was no line, no crowd. The exclusivity was so intrinsic that it needed no ostentation.

Daniel slid the Bugatti into a small reserved space in front of the restaurant, which had miraculously been vacated. Almost before the car had come to a complete stop, a uniformed valet, with an air of understanding the value of discretion and efficiency, was at the driver's door, no instructions needed. It was the same level of impeccable service, an extension of Daniel's network.

And then, to Elara's surprise, the restaurant's discreet door opened, and a man emerged. It wasn't a hostess, nor a maître d'. It wasChef César Ramirez himself, the renowned chef behind Chef's Table at Brooklyn Fare, a three-Michelin-starred culinary artist known for his reclusiveness and for rarely making himself present in the dining room, much less at the door. He was an imposing figure, with a crisp white coat and a serious expression, but a genuine, if restrained, smile lit up his face when he saw Daniel.

"Daniel. What an honor to have you with us tonight," Chef Ramirez said, his voice deep and respectful, a tone he reserved for few. His eyes shifted from Daniel to Elara, and a flicker of curiosity passed through them. "And fine company, if I may say so."

Daniel shook the chef's hand, a firm, direct grip. "Caesar. Always a pleasure. I hope we didn't disturb your kitchen. This is Elara Vance." He introduced her with a casualness that made her blush slightly.

"Not at all, Daniel. The kitchen is always at your disposal," Chef Ramirez replied, turning to Elara with a slight bow. "Miss Vance, an honor. Your presence brightens our humble establishment." There was sincerity in his voice, but Elara could tell the deference was almost entirely directed at Daniel. She wondered what kind of "dirty business" Daniel had "settled" for Chef Ramirez to warrant such a welcome.

The interior of Chef's Table at Brooklyn Fare was a sanctuary of minimalism and purpose. The ambiance was intimate and quiet, a refuge from the hustle and bustle of the city. There were no individual tables in the traditional sense. Instead, a long, polished, dark wood counter snaked through the space, seating about 20 carefully spaced places. Behind the counter, the kitchen was wide open, an orchestra of chefs and cooks in white coats moving with mesmerizing precision. Knives gleamed under the spotlights, pans sizzled softly, and the aromas of fresh herbs, freshly grilled fish, and complex broths wafted through the air. There was no loud music, just the subtle sounds of food preparation and the subdued murmur of conversation. It was a culinary theater, and Daniel and Elara had front-row seats.