The restaurant Nero chose did not serve wings.
Sylvia knew this because the menu had words like confit, reduction, foam, and seasonal interpretation, which meant the kitchen probably considered oil something that happened to lesser buildings.
The dining room was all dark marble, warm gold light, tall floral arrangements, and servers trained to glide instead of walk. Every table looked like it had been arranged for a diplomatic engagement or a discreet scandal between people with inherited money and excellent posture.
Sylvia stared at the room.
Then she stared at Nero.
"You said wings."
Nero, dressed in a black coat and looking violently expensive beneath the chandelier light, gave the room one calm glance. "Yes."
"This place looks like it apologizes to potatoes before slicing them."
His mouth curved faintly. "They have a kitchen."
"That is not the same as having wings."
