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MARTIN ELIAN LOOKS AROUND his restaurant, Café Martin, every table occupied, the main room noisy but not too noisy, the soundtrack really one of life and fun.

Comme le Seigneur l’a voulu, he thinks.

As the Lord intended.

And Martin knows he should be happy about this, happy about business being good again after he nearly lost everything, first because of COVID, and later because of his gambling, and the mountain of debt both had created.

He promised himself he would stop gambling for good after the very bad men to whom he owed money had threatened to kill him. That was before he saw on the news that his ex-wife, Jane, killed one of those men, even if she hadn’t done it for him.

Now the restaurant is back on its feet and so is he.

But for how long?

When he started gambling again, he told himself this time he would only do it in moderation. But Martin Elian is self-aware enough to know that this is an addiction with him the way beautiful women always have been, even when he was still married to Jane Smith.

When he had started betting again, small at first, he had done it legally, with FanDuel and DraftKings, where you could only lose what you put in.

He told himself that this was just a way of scratching the itch, and that he would never again put himself into the position of gambling away the restaurant.

But then, after an early hot streak, he started to lose.

Not all of his profits from Café Martin.

But enough that he started betting with bookies again, thinking it was the best way for him to get even, and fast. Just this one last time.

And not with his old bookie on Long Island. A new one in the city.

As much as he hated what he was doing, he knew it was more than just the familiar thrill of the action.

There had always been a different kind of thrill for him, when he first started betting on sports, the danger of working with men he knew worked for the mob, making it even more of a guilty pleasure.

But once he got behind, the vicious cycle started up all over again. And then, almost like the natural order of things, he was borrowing from the same people with whom he was placing his bets.

Again.

Now he is more than just behind.

Martin Elian is drowning.

And knows a visit is coming, another part of the natural order of things for people with a problem like his. He just doesn’t know when.

FanDuel and DraftKings don’t send people around when you start losing with them. The only debt is your own. You’re betting your own money, not theirs.

He remembered reading a magazine article by a reporter in Los Angeles who said anyone opening a restaurant wasn’t just a chef or a business manager. They were gamblers, too, placing huge bets on themselves.

Toute la vie est un pari.

All of life is a gamble, that is what he keeps telling himself.

Only his gambling is controlling him all over again, and not the other way around.

He can’t shake the image inside his head: taking the kind of money coming in tonight with one hand and with the other handing it over to the men who are essentially his bankers.

Just bankers with far more punitive interest rates.

As he surveys the busy main room once again, he sees the man who’s kept eyes on Martin since he was seated at one of the window tables.

The man is eating alone, but now he’s motioning Martin over.

Now he feels a chill come over him, fearful that this has become a different kind of big night for him at Café Martin.

The man is wearing what Martin, who prides himself on knowing men’s fashion, can see is an expensive navy suit, one that fits him so well Martin wonders if it has been made for him. White shirt. Tie the same color as the suit.

He has already finished his dinner, Martin’s own signature foie gras appetizer and the most expensive steak on the menu. Now there is only a glass of brandy on the white tablecloth. The man takes a sip, even that simple motion measured with the extreme precision of a surgeon.

Martin has already checked the reservation sheet.

Robby Sassoon is the man’s name.

Not Robert.

Robby.

It makes Martin think of the Sassoon Salon on Fifth Avenue where he used to go to have his hair colored. Not dyed. Just colored, to get the combination of black and flecks of gray just right.

Martin reluctantly moves across the room, nodding to some regulars as he does, then extends his hand to Robby Sassoon.

Sassoon smiles warmly as he shakes it, as if greeting an old friend. He has close-cropped dark hair, eyes pale as the color of water, skin that is almost as pale. Martin can’t help noticing that Sassoon’s nails are polished to a gleam.

“Arrêtez les conneries au travail,” Robby Sassoon says.

The accent is flawless, but that is not what makes Martin flinch.

It’s the man’s choice of words.

Let’s cut the shit and get down to business.

“Was there something wrong with your food?” Martin asks defensively.

“Quite the contrary,” Sassoon says. “The food was delicious, as I expected it to be. I have to say, Martin, that you’re quite an excellent chef, for a dead man.”

Martin hears someone call his name from across the room.

He turns and manages to wave absently in the general direction, without even seeing where the voice came from, or caring.

But he remains frozen in place at Sassoon’s table, this man threatening him in two languages, his choice of words as precise, as razor sharp, as everything else about him.

Sassoon is completely still as he keeps his smile fixed on Martin.

“Perhaps we should go downstairs to my office,” Martin says, “where we can speak in private.”

“Here is fine,” Sassoon says.

As he takes another sip of his brandy, Martin sits down across from him, suddenly wanting a drink himself. He keeps his voice low as he says, “Listen, I know why you’re here.”

“I should have come around sooner,” Sassoon says. “We were keeping an eye on you, Martin, even before you came back into the fold, when you were just dipping your toe into those places advertising incessantly on television.”

“Wait … how do you know about that?” Martin asks him.

“We know everything about you,” he says. “But what you didn’t know is that the new people taking your action now are actually our people. We just didn’t announce the merger to the media.”

Martin feels as if he has been cornered in his own restaurant.

“Nothing to say?” Sassoon says. “You’re not being a very affable host.”

“I just need until the end of next week,” Martin Elian says. “A friend is going to loan me the money I need.”

Robby Sassoon’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Don’t lie to me, Martin,” he says. “Or I will hurt you much worse than the others ever did.”

Sassoon idly picks up the dessert menu before putting it back down next to his glass.

“You called me a dead man,” Martin says. “But if I wasn’t worth killing before, why now?”

“Just a figure of speech to get your attention,” Sassoon says. “I’ve really come here tonight to let you in on how you can help me help you, if you can believe it.”

Sassoon still hasn’t raised his voice or changed expression. But there is something more frightening about this man than any of the others sent here before him. And something creepy.

The French word for that is effrayant.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he says, “and I’ll do it, I swear.”

“Well, first I want you to pay up,” Sassoon says, “because this is the last warning, unless you want this restaurant, your pride and joy, to become our restaurant. And then I want you to tell any of your friends who like to gamble with the rent money what can happen if they don’t pay in a prompt manner, just to save me the trouble of telling them myself. Can you do that for me, Martin?”

Somehow the man’s voice sounds as if he is purring.

“Yes.”

Martin’s own voice sounds thick, hoarse.

“Tell them that while they like the dirty pleasure of gambling with people like us,” Sassoon continues, “they need to pay their debts, and promptly.”

Sassoon raises his right hand then. Martin can’t help himself. He flinches and feels himself redden.

But all Sassoon has done is reach across the table to pat him on top of his head.

“Dinner’s on you,” he says, then pushes back his chair, pats Martin on the head one more time, and walks out of Café Martin.