I looked at him.
Twenty years of marriage sat ten feet away from me in a charcoal Brioni suit.
The same man who once fell asleep with his head in my lap because he had been terrified our first restaurant would fail.
The same man who once whispered, “We did it,” when we served our hundredth customer.
The same man who, ten years later, stood on a magazine cover alone beneath the headline:
THE MAN WHO BUILT A CHICAGO EMPIRE FROM NOTHING.
He looked older now.
Silver threaded through his black hair.
Fine lines had formed beside his eyes.
But the expression was the same one I had seen whenever a dishwasher asked for a raise or a supplier questioned an invoice.
Dismissive.
Certain.
Cruel without the inconvenience of anger.
Judge Monroe asked, “Are you suggesting Mrs. Hale contributed no meaningful labor to the business?”
Victor smiled.
“I’m saying she was basically a pack mule.”
