Chapter Two-Hundred Sixty: The Thousand Dollar Waltz

Chapter 260

The Thousand-Dollar Waltz

Dressed in a button-down shirt featuring a chrome car, jeans, and Chelsea boots, Jaxon stepped outside.

Jaxon reached into his pocket and pulled out a Zippo. With a sharp, metallic click, the lid flipped open, and he struck the flint, a small flame dancing to life. He lit his cigarette, the tip glowing orange as he took a deep, steady drag. As he exhaled a thin stream of smoke, he glanced across the street and noticed Fabien sitting on the lawn, calmly smoking a cigarette of his own. With his bare feet dangling over the armrest, Fabien lounged sideways across a folding chair.

With a smirk directed at Jaxon, Fabien raised his left hand and flipped him off. Jaxon shot him a dark look and flipped him off right back.

Jaxon: “Fuck you, too.”

He hissed. Fabien chuckled. He inhaled a long drag and exhaled a plume of gray smoke into the humid mid-afternoon air.

Fabien: “How’s Lena doing?”

Shrugging, Jaxon took a long drag of his cigarette.

Jaxon: “Haven’t seen her since we rescued her from Tristan’s weirdo uncle and mother.”

Fabien snorted.

Fabien: “Yeah, right, Jiro. She actually stopped by to make me some BLTs… and then went over to Danny Donger’s to request a dance.”

Fabien grinned, prompting Jaxon to gape at him before laughing and shaking his head. Fabien simply raised an eyebrow.

Jaxon: “Okay? Why exactly are you telling me this?”

He asked with a smirk.

Jaxon: “Is Celeste cool with this?”

Fabien’s amusement instantly vanished, his smile hardening into a sharp glare.

Jaxon laughed and turned over so his back leaned against the railing.

Jaxon: “You seem to forget we all have acute hearing. I heard you two argue. She broke up with you.”

He grinned, leaning his head back with his cigarette between his lips. Fabien bared his teeth, feeling his fury grow.

Swinging his legs off the chair, he slid his feet into his flip-flops and marched across the street to Jaxon’s house. Stepping onto the patio, he ground out his cigarette against the side of the house. Jaxon smiled at him.

Jaxon: “What’s wrong, Fab?”

He inquired, adopting a sneering, compassionate tone.

Fabien: “What goes on between Celeste and me is none of your fucking business, Jiro-kun.”

He hissed.

Fabien: “And we made up, thanks for asking.”

Jaxon laughed.

Jaxon: “Because of Tristan, most likely.”

Fabien: “Unlike you, I don’t need Tristan to wipe my ass. You? You need everyone to wipe your ass, warm the toilet seat for you, and do everything for you!”

He fired back.

Fabien: “This house and everything you own is because someone else did it for you because you’re a fucking moron!”

He bellowed. Jaxon laughed.

Jaxon: “Did what I say upset you that much, Fab? Not cracking your jokes, which is something you do a lot.”

He stuck his tongue out.

Fabien clenched his fists tightly, and then his expression suddenly relaxed.

Fabien: “So since you’re fucking Lena’s BROTHER, I guess that is on me for allowing her to flirt with me since you moved on… as you always do. You jump from person to person to fill in that gaping fucking void that can never be filled.”

Jaxon let out a dry chuckle.

Jaxon: “We’re not fucking, idiot. We’re just enjoying each other’s company, which is something you can’t do, except with Celeste and maybe Tristan, since you have no friends. Gee, I wonder why.”

He smirked. Fabien looked away and looked back.

Fabien: “Coming from the asshole who crossed a crime lord and is now on his shit list, you talk big.”

He countered. Jaxon’s smile faded.

Fabien: “Didn’t that same crime lord give you the funds to buy your car, fund your failure of a ‘band’, and this house?”

He cupped his chin as he looked up. Jaxon looked away and heaved a deep sigh.

Fabien: “And where are your friends, Mr. Popularity?”

He asked wryly. Jaxon scoffed, flicking his cigarette butt onto the ground.

Jaxon: “Friends are just people waiting for their turn to stab you in the back, Fab. I’m better off on my own.”

Fabien gaped at him and threw his head back, giving a harsh bark of laughter.

Fabien: “Wow, Jiro-kun, that is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve heard in a while.”

He shook his head.

Fabien: “If that held any water, why are you with Jordi now? Why aren’t you on your own?”

He challenged.

Fabien: “Stabbing in the back? Like what YOU did to Celeste as well as Percy?”

He added for good measure.

Jaxon embraced himself.

Jaxon: “That was necessity, not betrayal. But I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand the difference.”

Fabien glared at him.

Fabien: “Fuck you. What you did to Celeste was betrayal. Don’t fucking gaslight me into believing what you did was justified.”

He spat.

Jaxon: “What do you want from me?! You won! You got Celeste!”

He fired back, raising his arms.

Fabien: “Yeah, except Celeste is not a trophy to be won. I love her with all my heart, and that bitch, Ivy, made her think I was doing what YOU did to Celeste at Seashell Cove!”

He said scathingly. Jaxon’s bottom lip trembled.

Fabien: “So yes, Jiro, your actions still affect her. I am not you.”

He hissed.

Jaxon bared his teeth.

Jaxon: “YOU flirted with Lena to troll ME! That’s fucking pathetic and sad, FABIEN!”

He growled.

Fabien: “Yes, and I also did it because it’s my fucking JOB to! You go further with your clients than I do!”

He fired back, his voice rising.

Fabien: “You focused on Chelsea, and that wasn’t you doing a job. You meant it, and you cast Celeste aside for her. You didn’t have the balls to tell Celeste how you felt so she could have left you and moved on.”

He huffed. Jaxon looked away and sighed.

Fabien: “I don’t have feelings for Lena. I was also flirtatious with a woman celebrating her 48th birthday, but I do what I do for tips. Danny Donger’s is about sex appeal. Who I come home to is the woman I love.”

He said resolutely.

Jaxon stormed past Fabien and went back into his house, slamming the door in his face. Fabien grinned.

Fabien: “He almost got me, but… he didn’t.”

He said smugly.

~

Narcisse and Charlotte teleported to The Grand Pavilion of Wonders. Underneath an ice-blue, fitted long coat, Charlotte wore a pleated dark blue gown that swept the floor. The coat featured an open front, plush white collar, and matching fur-trimmed cuffs, with subtle white snowflake patterns adorning the side panels at her hips. On her feet, she wore blue flip-flops, each enhanced by a prominent ruby positioned on the center strap. Narcisse was dressed in a purple double-breasted suit paired with a white pressed shirt that featured a stand-up collar, a dark purple silk cravat, and white loafers.

Standing near the rundown carousel, Balerico wore a sharply tailored, traditional dark navy blue suit designed with structured shoulders and wide lapels. He paired it with a crisp white dress shirt and a coordinating dark blue ascot tie neatly tucked beneath the collar. His outfit was accented by a dark blue pocket square in his breast pocket, black loafers on his feet, and a whimsical touch—a tiny rubber duckie pin fastened to his left lapel.

Charlotte examined the abandoned theme park with a scowl. Narcisse spread his arms out.

Narcisse: “Charlotte, my darling, welcome to our base!”

He beamed. Charlotte turned to him.

Charlotte: “ ‘Our’?”

She raised an eyebrow.

Charlotte: “You think I want ownership of this dump?”

She asked sharply. Narcisse’s jaw tightened.

Narcisse: “Well, my dear sister, this is where the fun starts to torment my naughty little nephew and your son!”

He said through a strained smile. Charlotte looked away.

Charlotte: “Then I definitely don’t want this dump.”

She hissed. Balderico laughed and shook his head.

Balderico: “She’s a feisty one, isn’t she?”

He grinned. Narcisse bared his teeth at Balderico.

He approached Charlotte.

Narcisse: “Charlotte, this place shows promise to change Tristan and even Victor.”

He stated. Charlotte rolled her eyes.

Charlotte: “I don’t care. I don’t want this dump. I don’t want Tristan or my sorry excuse of a husband. You always loved Victor more than I ever did.”

She said sharply. Narcisse clenched his fist and his jaw tightened.

Charlotte: “I want out of this dump. Where’s Julien?”

Narcisse: “Julien is dead, dear sister.”

He sneered. Charlotte bore her cold gaze on him.

Charlotte: “No, he’s not. I saw him when I was whole again. You can chase that weakling son and my husband. I am not interested in either. Tristan would have disappointed Papa.”

She scowled. Narcisse furrowed his brow tightly as his temper soared.

Narcisse: “Charlotte, I had that coat made for you…”

Charlotte: “And I love it, but I don’t owe anything to you. I don’t want this dump, Tristan, or Victor. They are yours.”

She said tersely.

Narcisse stood amidst the decay, his pristine white loafers stark against the grime of the pavilion floor. The insults Charlotte had hurled at him—calling his base a “dump”—stung worse than any physical blow. He smoothed the lapels of his purple double-breasted suit, his fingers trembling slightly as he adjusted his silk cravat. He refused to let her see the cracks in his composure.

He turned his gaze toward the skeletal carousel where Balderico stood, a silent spectator to his humiliation. Narcisse bared his teeth at his companion, a gesture more predatory than friendly. She just doesn't understand the vision, he told himself, the narrative looping in his mind to soothe his ego. She is merely confused, lost, and in need of the structure only he could provide.

He looked back at his sister, his expression a mask of strained affection. He forced the corners of his mouth upward, though the resulting smile didn't reach his eyes.

Narcisse: “You think too small, Charlotte.”

He murmured, his voice silky but laced with an undercurrent of venom.

Narcisse: “This place... it is a blank canvas for the destruction of those who have disappointed us. It is not a dump. It is an instrument.”

He caught his reflection in the polished brass of a nearby, long-defunct ticket booth, ensuring every fold of his cravat was perfectly aligned. He took a slow, steadying breath, suppressing the urge to lash out, and squared his shoulders, determined to make her see reason—whether she wanted to or not.

Charlotte pivoted toward him, conjuring a solid block of ice in her palm before striking him across the face with enough force to send him crashing into the muck. Lifting his face from the mire, Narcisse stared in disbelief at his soiled garments. He looked up at his sister, his mind swirling with a volatile mix of humiliation, fury, and bitter frustration. Balderico cupped his mouth to stifle his laughter.

Charlotte: “How dare you speak to me that way?! Papa raised you better than that, you insolent brat!”

She thundered. Her words of anger echoed in Narcisse’s head, hating being called that. He squeezed his eyes as tears welled in them.

Charlotte: “I’m going back to Clerteaux. This place smells of decay like your ideas, Narcisse.”

With that, she pressed the button in her ear and teleported away.

Balderico let out a throaty laugh.

Balderico: “Ah, she’s not what you thought she was, eh, Narcisse?”

He grinned maliciously. Glaring hotly at Balderico and baring his teeth, Narcisse angrily rose from the mud.

Narcisse: “Stay out of this, you rubber ducky pig FUCK!”

He rasped, mud dripping from his white hair onto his ruined suit.

Balderico: “You were SO gung-ho to resurrect her, and she hates, HATES all your ideas.”

He chuckled.

Narcisse: “Yes, like YOURS are any better! All you do is think of rubber ducks, and spoiling your shithead daughter because some guy doesn’t want to date her!”

Balderico smiled.

Balderico: “Yes, rubber duckies make the world a better place, and I love my Princess Gina.”

He inhaled sharply, smoothing out the lapels on his suit.

Balderico: “I understand putting family first, but sometimes women can be… difficult.”

He said with a strained smile.

Balderico: “I have a wife and two daughters. PMS is something else, isn’t it?”

He teased. Narcisse rolled his eyes.

Narcisse: “Why are we still working together?! I have no interest in the Vaqueros anymore, and you can’t do anything to influence Tristan!”

Balderico smiled tightly.

Balderico: “I can influence others to build robots that could withstand him and his little friends.”

He chuckled.

Balderico: “And I have the means to keep the power running in our base.”

He added.

Balderico pursed his lips.

Balderico: “I know you’re upset, Narcisse, but I’m not the enemy here.”

He cleared his throat.

Balderico: “I need this base to launch my own operation. I have bought dozens of shell companies on the Dectaur Docks. There’s a bill to rezone the district from industrial to commercial residential. If that happens, land values skyrocket overnight. If the rezoning happens, our $5 million investment becomes $150 million, plus secures decades of lucrative construction and luxury hotel concessions.”

He explained.

Balderico: “He made a campaign pledge to the longshoremen’s union. He’s scheduling the final planning commission vote for Friday, and every indication shows he’s going to exercise his veto. He’s not taking the bribe. He thinks his public legacy is worth more than our money.”

Balderico turned slowly. He didn’t look angry; he looked disappointed, like a master craftsman dealing with an uncooperative piece of wood.

Balderico: “Sully Stone thinks in terms of legacy because he’s never had to trade anything real to build it. He thinks money is the highest price a man can pay. We need to change his currency.”

He chuckled.

Balderico: “If our dear mayor won’t take the carrot, and he isn’t afraid of the stick, we take the one thing in this city he values more than his political career.”

He smiled.

Narcisse rolled his eyes.

Narcisse: “And what does this have to do with me? Nothing!”

He spat. Balderico retained his smile.

Balderico: “I don’t need your help for this, my boy, but you’re free to watch the show if you change your mind.”

Narcisse brushed the mud from his suit and cleaned his glasses.

Narcisse: “I won’t.”

Balderico smiled.

Balderico: “Well, a certain snowy-haired ice-wielding gentleman might be the one to rescue the damsel-in-distress.”

He murmured. Narcisse froze.

Balderico brushed his sleeve back to look at his Rolex.

Balderico: “It’s dinner time, and I am famished.”

He straightened his jacket.

Balderico: “Don’t be a stranger, Narcisse.”

He smiled and walked away.

~

Fabien pushed through the swing doors of the back breakroom at Danny Donger’s, adjusting the strap of his black server utility pouch around his waist. He wore his green hot pants, white calf socks, and green sneakers.

Gary: “You look great, Fabien!”

He smiled.

Gary: “Section three is yours tonight. Table four ordered two pitchers of beer!”

Fabien: “Thanks, and got it.”

Fabien stepped into the main dining room. The atmosphere was already alive with the sounds of synth-pop blasting from the jukebox, the heavy clinking of glass mugs, and the sizzling aroma of hot wings wafting from the kitchen pass-through.

Fabien grabbed a tray from the station and went to the bar. The bartender placed two pitchers of beer on it. He carried the tray, balancing two overflowing, frosted pitchers of draft beer in his left hand.

Fabien: “Evening, gentlemen.”

He said, sliding the heavy pitchers onto table four without spilling a single drop of foam.

Fabien: “Welcome to Danny Donger’s. I’m Fabien, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Who’s starting us off with an order of wings?”

Man: “Make it a double order, Fabien! With Pink Top City Heat sauce!”

He called out over the bassline of the jukebox.

Fabien: “You got it.”

He winked, scribbling the order down with practiced ease before pivoting back toward the kitchen.

Balderico stepped through the doors of Danny Donger’s and approached the hostess, Janine. He stood out like a sore thumb among the patrons in sleeveless tees and trucker hats.

Janine: “Hello, sir, table for one?”

Balderico: “Yes, Madame!”

Janine: “Right this way, sir.”

She said with a practiced, friendly grin, sliding laminated menus onto the dark wood table by the jukebox.

Balderico offered a charming, open-palmed bow of thanks before smoothing his slacks and taking a seat. He looked around the lively room with an entertained, theatrical smile, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket.

A moment later, Fabien strolled up, his order pad and pen in hand.

Fabien: “Evening, sir! Welcome to Danny Donger’s. I’m Fabien. Can I get you started with an ice-cold draft, or are you just here for the legendary wings?”

He gave him a breezy, confident smirk.

Balderico sat frozen in the booth, his open-palmed charm completely forgotten as his eyes traced over Fabien—from the wavy white hair and green beaded necklace down to the bare chest, low-slung hot pants, and lean legs. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even try to check the menu. He was simply lost in the sight, taking in every inch of the waiter standing before him.

Fabien held his easygoing smirk, letting the moment hang in the air for a beat. He was used to getting looks in the green nylon shorts and tube socks, but the sheer, stunned silence coming from a guy in a tailored navy suit and a cravat was a whole new level of entertaining.

Fabien shifted his weight onto one hip, tapping his order pad against his palm with a slow, amused rhythm.

Fabien: “Take your time, man. It’s a lot to process. The menu’s pretty overwhelming.”

He said, his voice laced with a cool, smooth humor as he leaned slightly against the edge of the timber booth. He gave Balderico a subtle, knowing wink, perfectly content to let him drink in the view for as long as he needed.

Balderico finally found his voice, though it was a touch breathier than his usual polished tone. He slowly smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket, his dark eyes lingering on Fabien’s grin before he spoke.

Balderico: “A Manhattan.”

He requested, his voice dripping with smooth, aristocratic charm.

Balderico: "Sweet vermouth, a dash of bitters, and the finest rye you have behind that bar, my good man."

Fabien tilted his head, his smirk widening. He tapped his pen against the order pad.

Fabien: “A Manhattan, huh? Elegant choice.”

He said, casually resting a hand on his hip.

Fabien: “Though down here at Danny Donger’s, ‘the finest rye ' usually comes out of a well bottle with a plastic pour spout. But I’ll make sure the bartender gives it a little extra love for you.”

Balderico: “I have complete faith in your service…”

He murmured, offering a brilliant, enamored smile as he leaned back into the booth.

Fabien: “Back in a flash.”

He winked, turning on his heel and striding off toward the bar, leaving Balderico to watch him walk away happily.

Fabien glided back over to the booth, balancing a classic coupe glass on his server tray. He set the drink down onto a cardboard coaster in front of Balderico with a flourish, the dark, amber liquor catching the pink and green glow of the surrounding neon signs.

Fabien: “One Manhattan.”

He announced, leaning in slightly with that cool, unflappable grin. Balderico stared at the glass for a brief second before his eyes darted right back up to Fabien, completely unbothered by the dive-bar origins of his cocktail. He reached out, taking a delicate sip while maintaining full eye contact.

Balderico: “Perfection.”

He purred, setting the glass down.

Balderico: “Though I suspect the company enhances the flavor considerably.”

Fabien chuckled, resting his hands casually on his hips as he shifted his weight.

Fabien: “Smooth talker, aren’t we? Are we looking at the wing menu tonight, or did you just come in to admire the ambiance?”

Balderico set his cocktail down and looked up at Fabien, his smile turning downright smitten.

Balderico: “I’ll have the medium-rare ribeye.”

He said smoothly, waving his hand in a theatrical flourish.

Balderico: “Sautéed—no, grilled—mushrooms and onions on top. And a baked potato, loaded if your chef has the heart for it.”

Fabien’s pen flew across his order pad, jotting down the ticket with practiced speed. He raised an eyebrow, a teasing spark in his eye.

Fabien: “A full ribeye at Danny Donger’s…”

He chuckled, slipping the pad back into his waist pouch.

Fabien: “You’re playing high-stakes poker with our kitchen grill, my friend, but I’ll make sure the cook treats it like a masterpiece. Sour cream and butter on that potato?”

Balderico: “Naturally…”

He purred, leaning his chin into his hand as he drank in the sight of Fabien again.

Balderico: “And take your time… I’m quite enjoying the view while I wait.”

Fabien just smirked, gave a playful two-finger salute, and spun around toward the kitchen pass-through.

~

Fabien pushed through the swinging double doors of the kitchen, expertly balancing a heavy ceramic platter on one arm and a side plate on the other. The rich, savory aroma of seared beef, melted butter, and charred onions drifted through the air, momentarily cutting through the smell of deep-fried wings and stale draft beer.

He glided over to Balderico’s booth and set the steaming plate down in front of him with a smooth, practiced hand.

Fabien: “One medium-rare ribeye smothered in grilled mushrooms and onions, plus a baked potato loaded with the works.”

He announced, leaning in slightly as the sizzle of the steak echoed off the wooden table. Balderico’s eyes darted from the surprisingly impressive steak up to Fabien, his theatrical smile widening into pure delight.

Balderico: “A feast fit for a king…”

He murmured, though his gaze remained fixed squarely on his waiter rather than the food. Balderico: “Prepared by the hands of an angel, no less.”

Fabien chuckled, resting one hand on his hip while adjusting his server pouch with the other. Fabien: “Hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves—credit the line cook first, then tell me how it tastes. Can I get you another Manhattan while you dig in?”

Balderico: “Yes, please…”

Fabien: “Coming right up!”

He said, giving him another easy wink before pivoting back toward the bar.

A couple of minutes later, Fabien glided back over, resting the second chilled coupe glass on the table alongside a small bowl of A.1. steak sauce he’d grabbed just in case.

Fabien: “Here ya go. Now, cut into that ribeye before it gets cold. I have to make sure the kitchen actually hit medium-rare, or I’m taking it back.”

Balderico, practically swooning at the attentive service, picked up his steak knife with a flourish and sliced directly into the center. A warm, pink center bled onto the hot plate, perfectly cooked.

He took a bite, chewed slowly, and let out a dramatic sigh of total contentment—eyes never leaving Fabien’s.

Balderico: “Exquisite. Truly... perfection.”

Fabien: “Glad to hear it!”

He laughed, resting a hand on his hip.

Fabien: “Enjoy the meal, man. Let me know if you need anything else to go with the view.”

~

Fabien stepped up to the booth, a fresh tray tucked under his arm, and gave the clean plate an approving nod.

Fabien: “Look at that, you really enjoyed it. Ready for the check, or can I tempt you with some dessert?”

Balderico gently set his napkin down, smoothing the front of his navy suit. He dabbed the corners of his mouth, looked up at Fabien with that earnest, smitten gaze, and held up his hand.

Balderico: “Fabien, may I have just a moment of your time before you whisk those plates away?”

He said softly, his voice dropping into a rich, theatrical purr. Fabien paused, resting one hand on his hip and shifting his weight with an amused tilt of his head.

Fabien: “Sure, man. You’ve got the floor. What’s on your mind?”

Balderico motioned with a flourish toward the corner of the dining room, where the warm glow of the jukebox illuminated the spinning 45 record. The smooth, sultry saxophone notes of Kenny G’s Songbird drifted gently over the chatter of the bar. Balderico stood up from the booth, smoothing his navy suit jacket and extending a hand, his expression pure romantic devotion.

Balderico: “Listen to that melody…”

He purred, gazing up at Fabien with adoring eyes.

Balderico: “Fabien... would you grant me the supreme honor of a dance?”

Fabien glanced over at the jukebox, then back at Balderico, his smirk widening into a full, amused chuckle.

Fabien: “Right now? In the middle of this place?”

He asked, resting a hand on his hip, completely unbothered but thoroughly entertained.

Fabien set his tray down on the edge of the table, wiped his hands with some napkins, and slid his hand into Balderico’s.

Fabien: “Okay, I’m in. Lead the way, big boy.”

Balderico took Fabien’s hand with the delicate precision of a seasoned lead, wrapping his other arm smoothly around Fabien’s waist. He moved with absolute, uncompromising gravity. He swept Fabien out into the open space between the booths.

The smooth, floating saxophone of Songbird echoed through the wood-paneled room. Balderico launched them into a classic, sweeping box step, gliding across the polished floor with rigid ballroom poise. He dipped and swayed, his dark eyes never leaving Fabien’s face, looking as utterly devoted as if they were dancing under a crystal chandelier in a Venetian palace rather than beneath the neon glow of a Glacier Lite sign.

Fabien let out a rich, booming laugh, going right along with the flow. He matched Balderico’s exaggerated steps with surprisingly light-footed grace on his green sneakers, letting himself be spun and guided across the bar.

Fabien: “Look at us.”

He chuckled, tossing his white hair back as Balderico swept him through a gentle turn.

Fabien: “You’re taking this very seriously, aren’t you?”

He said, drumming his fingers on his shoulders.

Balderico: “When one is presented with a vision of such beauty, one treats the moment with the reverence it deserves.”

He whispered, stepping deftly around a high-top table.

From behind the counter, Gary stood frozen, holding a stack of laminated menus, completely speechless as his star server slow-waltzed a guy in a three-piece suit right past the kitchen door. Fabien caught Gary’s stunned expression over Balderico’s shoulder, gave his manager a breezy, unbothered wink, and nestled back into the rhythm of the waltz.

As the saxophone solo of Songbird soared toward its climax, Balderico’s frame remained impeccably rigid, yet he maneuvered them both with the fluid grace of a ballroom champion. He guided Fabien through a sweeping natural turn, their reflection briefly catching in the mirrored pillar near the bar—a perfect picture of high-society elegance colliding with a humid Friday night at Danny Donger’s.

Balderico: “I must confess…I never expected to find such a radiant muse amidst the scent of fried poultry and stale hops.”

He whispered, his voice a low, theatrical rumble over the music.

Fabien let out another rich, booming laugh, letting himself be twirled with practiced ease.

Fabien: “I think this floor was just mopped.”

Balderico: “A palace floor beneath your feet.”

He corrected smoothly, never breaking eye contact.

The jukebox track hit its final, lingering crescendo. Seizing the moment, Balderico stepped forward, brought his hand securely to the small of Fabien’s back, and swept the bare-chested waiter into a flawless, dramatic dip.

Fabien’s wavy white hair tumbled backward, his green beaded necklace clinking softly against his chest. Instead of being flustered, Fabien just flashed his signature confident smirk, looking up at the besotted man in the cravat and navy suit.

Across the dining room, a table of regulars in trucker hats and sleeveless tees erupted into raucous applause, cheering and banging their empty pint glasses against the timber tables. Even Gary, still clutching his stack of laminated menus by the host stand, offered a slow, bewildered clap.

Balderico pulled Fabien back upright with effortless strength, smoothly bringing them to a halt before offering a deeply respectful, open-palmed bow.

Balderico: “Thank you for the dance, my radiant muse…”

He said, taking Fabien's hand and pressing a gentle, devoted kiss to his knuckles. Fabien chuckled, pulling his hand back smoothly to straighten his server pouch and casually adjust one of his socks.

Fabien: “Anytime, big boy. Now, as much as I love the spotlight, I should probably get back to work before Gary has a heart attack. I’ll grab your check.”

~

Fabien walked back over to the booth, holding a small black vinyl check presenter with his usual effortless, cool composure.

Fabien: “Here you go, my friend... Two manhattans, one loaded ribeye, and a free slow-dance on the house.”

He said, placing the presenter on the table with a smooth, practiced motion.

Balderico didn’t even glance at the total. Without missing a beat, he reached into his navy suit jacket, pulled out an elegant leather wallet, and casually placed a thick stack of fresh one-hundred bills inside. He closed it with a soft snap and pushed it toward Fabien, his dark eyes glowing with utter devotion.

Balderico: “For your exquisite service… and for a memory I shall treasure forever…”

He said smoothly.

Fabien opened the presenter to grab the ticket and froze for a split second. Sitting right on top was a crisp, neatly stacked thousand dollars. He raised an eyebrow, looking down at the pile of Benjamins, then back up at Balderico with a slow, genuinely impressed grin.

Fabien: "A thousand bucks?"

He chuckled, resting one hand on his hip while holding the cash.

Fabien: “Man, Gary’s going to think I’m running an illegal gambling ring here. You sure about this?”

He asked incredulously.

Balderico: “Every single cent…”

He said, standing up and buttoning his jacket with a triumphant, smitten smile.

Balderico: “Consider it a modest tribute to a truly unforgettable evening.”

Fabien tucked the stack securely into his waist pouch next to his order pad, giving Balderico his signature, confident two-finger salute.

Fabien: “Thank you so, so much! You take care and drive safely tonight.”

Balderico: “Fabien?”

Fabien paused just as he was about to turn back toward the kitchen, slipping the black check presenter into his waist pouch. He looked back over his shoulder at Balderico, his wavy white hair catching the pink glow of the neon signs, an amused and expectant smirk playing on his lips.

Fabien: “Yes?”

He asked smoothly, resting a hand on his hip. Balderico took a step closer, his expression shifting into one of pure, dramatic hope. He smoothed his cravat and held out his hands in a sweeping, romantic gesture.

Balderico: “There is a grand gala tomorrow evening at the Donati Tower ballroom, on the seventh floor…”

He said, his voice dropping into a rich, earnest purr.

Balderico: “The city’s finest will be there, but the room will mean nothing to me unless you are by my side. Fabien... will you do me the absolute honor of being my date?”

Fabien tilted his head, an amused, thoughtful grin slowly spreading across his face. He looked up at Balderico's expectant, smitten eyes. A thousand-dollar tip sitting in his server pouch certainly gave the offer a lot of weight.

Fabien: “Okay, I’m game! I do own one suit, actually…”

He smirked. Balderico’s face lit up.

Balderico: “I will pick you up tomorrow evening. Where do you live?”

Fabien: “Twenty-four Juniper Street.”

Balderico took his hand and kissed it one more time.

Balderico: “I will be there.”

He took Fabien’s hand and kissed it.

Balderico: “Good night, my snowy-haired angel.”

He said as he left the bar.