The steakhouse Damon selected, The Ironwood, was a dimly lit cavern of mahogany and leather, tucked away in the financial district. It was the kind of place where deals were closed over single-malt scotch and dry-aged beef. It was masculine, quiet, and excessively expensive.
It was 10:30 PM. The dinner rush had faded, leaving only a few scattered tables of businessmen loosening their ties.
Damon and Leo sat in a high-backed booth in the corner, shielded from the rest of the room.
"You weren't kidding about buying," Leo said, looking at the menu. "The prices here don't even have dollar signs."
"Order whatever you want," Damon said, loosening his own tie. He felt a strange sense of relief washing over him. The headache from the office was fading, replaced by the warmth of the restaurant and the company of the boy sitting across from him. "You earned it. That catch on the typhoon data probably saved the quarterly projection."
