"Speaking about my father," Fedora began, lifting the silver-rimmed food cover off the white porcelain plate before him, but then he paused mid-motion, the dome suspended in the air, his arm frozen as if caught in a glitch.
"Garnished beef sauce and rice? My usuals when I come to this place..." Fedora's voice trailed off as he studied the neatly curated dish.
He looked up, his gaze narrowing on Miguel with a sharp, questioning tilt of his head.
Miguel didn't offer an explanation; he simply jerked his shoulders, a non-committal twitch of muscle.
That wasn't the reaction he was fishing for. He wanted Fedora to keep talking about Storm. He needed to hear the legend of the man through the eyes of the son, he wanted to hear exactly what lies or truths the old bastard had fed his own blood about him.
"You have good taste, I must say," Fedora added with an impressive nod, finally dropping the cover with a muffled clink onto the table.
