Work Text:
2:30pm
Lucanis Dellamorte entered La Piazza with the grim determination of someone who’d already survived three hostile takeovers before noon. A deadline gnawed spitefully at the edge of his thoughts; a caffeine withdrawal threatened, and he hadn’t eaten in hours. He ignored the Please Wait to be Seated sign and chose the seat with the best vantage: bar front, clear sightlines, low noise profile. A tactical position. Negotiators liked leverage, even at lunch.
The dining room stretched behind him in a hushed tableau of frescoed hills and twilit skies, the illusion of an outdoor courtyard sustained by aged brick, twinkling ceiling lights, and a fountain that murmured over cherubs frolicking. It was a cliché if he’d ever seen one.
This late in the afternoon, the restaurant was quiet.
White marble ran the length of the counter, a leathered patina that invited one to lean. Lit by matte bronze fixtures that echoed an old-world winery catalog, an antique mirror reflected the gradient of bottles arranged by color — clear, amber, garnet, onyx, indigo — each label glinting under the angled cascade of light. The effect was decadent, deliberate, and expensive in ways that begged to be overlooked. It was all very... curated. Expensive charm.
He didn’t linger on the decor. He was here on Viago de Riva’s recommendation, which carried a certain credibility, even if it came with a flair for the dramatic. Logistics were the priority: confirm the place could handle private events, secure catering for two hundred, and survive lunch with minimal deviation from his calendar.
Lunch was collateral.
The person behind the bar flicked a glance his way, then returned to lining up bottles. No greeting.
“I’m here to inquire about a private event,” Lucanis said. “I’d like to order lunch as well.”
“You’ve come to the right place for both,” she responded with a surprisingly compelling smile. “If you’ve got deep enough pockets for the wine list,” she added, “I hope you brought a legal pad. It’s alphabetical and aggressive. We’ve got some truly ancient shi—stuff too, if this is an extra special occasion. Spans three wars and an incident in Kirkwall we don’t talk about.”
That earned a fractional lift of his brow. Her voice was dry, with heat behind it — not a voice of authority, just the kind that made people perk up without noticing.
“I prefer digital notetaking,” he said, a flicker of warmth creeping into his tone.
“Of course you do.” She tapped a measure of something syrupy into a shaker. “You seem like a spreadsheet kind of guy.” A hefty menu slid across the bone-white countertop. “QR code for catering’s on the back.”
Drink mixed and delivered, she came around and sat beside him on the outer edge of the bar.
“So,” she said. “Tell me about your event. Who are you, who sent you, and is this lunch or a business meeting?”
“Lucanis Dellamorte. Corporate negotiator.”
She stuck out her hand. “Pleasure, Lucanis. I’m Xiqaa Laidir, general manager.”
This informal, inappropriate person was the manager of Viago’s favorite restaurant?
“Nice to meet you, Xiqaa.” He hadn’t meant to sound charmed, but her name already felt like something he’d remember without prompting.
“Back atcha,” she said disarmingly.
Startled into a chuckle, Lucanis gave her a second look. She was tall — taller than him, though it didn’t particularly concern him. He was less of a commanding presence and more of a concentrated one. Her dark curls shimmered violet under the lights. Warm brown skin. Narrow, expressive lips that caught the light with glitter. Her eyes — luminous, wide-set, boldly shadowed — were large for her long freckled face, which was marked by a dark red zigzagging scar from cheekbone to collar. The scar gave her character, rather than detracting from her striking good looks.
“I know,” she said casually. “You’re thinking I’m too young for this job, and you’d be wrong. I’m way too old for this shit. Just too exhausted to age properly.”
She watched him watch her, politely ignoring that he was studying her face like he ought to be studying the menu.
He cleared his throat. “My apologies. Professional habit. I tend to enter last and spend too much time watching people’s faces. Which is awkward when there’s no one here but us.”
“And what did you see?” she asked bluntly. “I know what I see — scars and all. What’s the corporate negotiator’s first impression?”
“Your face and demeanor have a certain… electricity to them.”
Did those words just come out of his mouth? Inappropriate. He flushed, hoping the dim lighting would spare him.
Xiqaa threw her head back and laughed — a loud, free sound that didn’t belong in the romantic ambiance of the restaurant. Lucanis stared, fascinated. That laugh belonged in a private booth where he didn’t have to share it.
Wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, she cursed quietly at the smudge of eyeshadow left behind.
“You’re funny. I appreciate the assessment. Most people don’t have the balls to comment on the scar, but I prefer they ask and get it over with.”
Emboldened and curious, he asked, “What caused it?”
“Lightning strike, when I was nineteen. Not direct, but close. I grabbed a metal rail on the dock during a storm and got the universe’s version of a love bite. Scar stuck. So did the nickname ‘BBQ Girl.’ Not my best summer.”
“Do you play the lottery?” Lucanis’ mouth asked before his brain could catch up. “Someone as lucky as you is bound to win big.”
Mierda, Lucanis. Foot firmly in mouth.
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to offend,” he backpedaled quickly.
She laughed again, and the sound cracked open a window in his chest.
“You didn’t offend me — I’ve said worse before breakfast.” She studied him, eyes roaming over his face. “I don’t play the lottery, but I’ll keep it in mind. First time someone called me lucky for that story, so thanks. Let me buy you a drink.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You can, and you will. If it makes you feel better, you can buy me one in return. Today, or another day. Your choice.”
Oh, he would like. He was surprised by how much.
She leaned in again, pointing to the menu. “While you decide what to eat, I’ll mix something. You seem like a bitter-and-sweet kinda guy. Aperol spritz?”
“You’re good at assessing people yourself, Xiqaa Laidir. I prefer espresso martinis, but I’m open to negotiation.”
“Noted. I’m a terrible negotiator — unless you count the times I’ve negotiated someone's face with my fist.” She turned to mix his drink.
He opened his mouth to talk about a time he’d wanted to do the same, then shut it again. She didn’t need his work stories, and he wasn’t sure he had one that wouldn’t sound boring and corporate. Instead, Lucanis skimmed the menu, but the decision was already made: always judge a restaurant by how it handles the classics. He would leave the choice to her.
“…Do you think sounds better?” Xiqaa asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.
He blinked. “Your pardon?”
“You’re very polite. It’s cute. I was asking if you’d prefer a Negroni or an Aperol spritz. Too late, though. I picked the Negroni for you.” She placed the drink in front of him, arms folded, waiting.
It took him a beat too long to realize he was smiling openly. That hadn’t been on the agenda. Sympathizing with fish in aquariums and the way they lived in front of so many eyes, he sipped the drink. It was bitter, with a sweetness that didn’t offend.
“It’s…complex.”
“A specialty of mine,” Xiqaa said with a wink. “So what are you having? I recommend the seafood pasta.”
Lucanis bit back anything you want to give me and said, “Spaghetti with clams.”
“Good choice. Pasta’s house-made, sustainably smug, and the clams are so fresh and local they’ve filed a noise complaint about the fishermen’s boats.” Putting both hands on her hips, she squinted at him. “Did you want to buy me that drink now, or…?”
She was bold, and he was in so much trouble.
“I’m still considering,” he said, cautious.
Her wide smile broke something else behind his ribs. She snickered, walked off to enter the order, then returned to gesture at the catering form open on his phone.
“So. Wedding? Anniversary? Funeral disguised as dinner?”
“My grandmother’s company turns fifty soon. She built it off a hand-me-down desk, two vendettas she still hasn’t let go of, and a business partner with the emotional range of a wet sponge. Now I need catering for two hundred corporate mouths — we’re celebrating.”
Xiqaa snorted. “Say less. You’re a romantic at heart, I can tell.”
“If by romantic, you mean a workaholic who’d propose via a formal contract — a logistical nightmare including canapé coordination for his grandmother — sure.”
“Do I need to pull up a chair? I smell family drama.”
“It’d take longer than your shift to explain,” Lucanis smirked. “Relevant details: family business, anniversary gala, and my job is to ensure it doesn’t collapse under an emotional breakdown my grandmother would absolutely not endorse. I’m starting with the venue and the menu. This place came highly recommended by a very particular colleague.”
Xiqaa hummed thoughtfully. “You’ll need the whole space. I suggest booking a tasting session? You can try bite-sized versions of everything we offer.”
“Done,” Lucanis said.
“Wait, you haven’t had lunch yet,” she objected with a laugh. “At least taste the food before you sign a contract.”
He grinned. “Contract’s already been accepted.”
“Okay, counteroffer. Stop by for lunch a few times. Try the full sized menu versions of things. It won’t be cheap, but I assume you can expense it.”
Lucanis considered his Negroni. Complex. Bitter, fading into sweet. Not unlike his afternoon.
Expensing lunch had never sounded so appealing. That offer of a drink still hovered, an invitation that would turn to inevitability when the menu ran out of offerings.
“I can rearrange a few things, come back tomorrow, and we’ll get started.”