The café Anthony chose was nothing like The Lanesborough.
Tucked between a bookshop and a closed tailor, it had mismatched chairs, cracked leather booths, and the smell of bacon that had been frying since the seventies. Anthony slid into a corner booth like he owned it. Kyle sat across from him, the Ferrari visible through the window.
"Best full English in London," Anthony said, handing Kyle a menu that was sticky in some places. "Trust me."
Kyle glanced at the menu. Eggs, sausage, bacon, black pudding, beans, grilled tomatoes, toast, tea.
"This is a heart attack on a plate," Kyle said with a raised brow, he expected somewhere far more fancy considering the nature of the meeting.
"That's the point," Anthony sounded so confident that Kyle had no other choice but to give in.
They ordered. Two full Englishes, two teas. Then Anthony folded his hands on the table, and his expression shifted—still warm, but sharper around the edges.
Professional mode engaged.
