The Don's Wife

13 | Lunch Date

"It was Ronan Sullivan. He said he wanted to invite you to a lunch date. Tomorrow, 12 pm, at The Red Lantern, table number eighty." Micah reported.

"Sneaky little bastard finally made his move." I smirked in amusement.

"Okay, what's this all about? If you don't want to tell me then fine. But at least let me know, are we in deep shit or not?" Asked Micah.

"Nobody is in deep shit. This is all nothing but one of his games. Just play along, you'll come to understand tomorrow." I patted Micah's shoulder and walked away.

***

"You're leaving?" Rosalind asked when she saw me about to head out.

"As you can see." I gave a curt answer.

"But what about the dance lesson?"

Couldn't even bother.

"We'll do it later." Without sparing a glance, or giving my words any thought, I left the house.

"Okay, be safe. I'll wait for you." I heard her from afar as I got in my car.

Ronan has always had a unique preference of places. The first time was Indian, then Vietnamese, the other day was Laotian, and now it's fucking Chinese. I guess the bastard's got a fetish for asian cuisine.

Not that I have anything against asian cuisine, surprisingly I found their flavors rather rich and flavorful. But with how busy and loud they usually are, it's not exactly a proper place to talk. Then again the bastard does have a few screw loose, so it was befitting of him.

I entered The Red Lantern. Just as I expected, the place was bustling. Audible clanks and clatter of woks and dishware sourced from the kitchen, waiters shouting their customers' orders, while the cooks are yelling at each other in language I couldn't discern.

I hate loud places, they annoyed the hell out of me. But I'm willing to make an exception for asian restaurants. Because that's one of the good traits about them. The louder and messy they get the more delicious the food they make.

A Chinese lady, I'm assuming the owner came to greet me. She asked me what table number and just as Ronan told me I answered eighty. Then she proceed to lead me further inside into some kind of a VIP room.

The lady knocked on the door and said "One plate of chow mein, ready to serve."

Ciao– what now?

"Send him in." A voice came from inside the room.

When the lady opened the door what came into first view was the bastard himself. Standing at the corner of the room while casually playing fucking pac-man on an arcade machine, with the most unrefined get up known to man.

Wearing shades indoors, a hoodie three size too big, sewing-factory-gone-bankrupt-halfway-production jeans, and those disgusting tattered, unwashed sneakers.

It's Ronan alright.

I won't even bother to question how a pac-man machine end up in a chinese restaurant.

"Afternoon Ronan." I greeted.

He held up his finger at me as he's still invested on the screen, with his other hand fiddling with the joystick. "A minute please, just about to clear a stage."

Fucking nerd.

"And not any second longer or I'm leaving." I said.

After an exact minute had passed he finally quit playing, turned to me and smile. "Greetings, friend. Still uptight about time I see."