The Vent de Sol was booked solid. The clientele hailed from the upper echelons of New York’s .0001%. Table # 4 sitting eight people was dominated by a 54 year-old man in an impeccably British tailored suit. No one in the Upper East Side bistro had earned more than the wily investment banker. No one on Madison Avenue and no one in Manhattan either. No one even close.

The masked Latino waiter expertly refills Mark Bonsoul’s glass of 2000 Chateau Lafite Rothschild – Pauillac and the host of the party of eight says, “This one sip of wine costs more than this man makes in a night. Well, it does have to be a big sip.”

The banker guzzled a mouthful to the laughter of his friends.

The waiter bowed with dancer’s grace and serves the other guests a lesser vintage.

Dinner is served like a ballet of tastes and textures.

Before dessert mark Bounsoul ordered a Remy-Martin Louis XIII cognac and stood, patting his chest for the pack of Treasurer Aluminum Gold.

“You’ll have to forgive me, but old bad habits die hard and you usually die before the bad habit.”

He exited from the restaurant onto Madison Avenue. The pandemic had emptied the streets. Mark had never caned more money than throughout Co-vids and lit his cigarette with a gold lighter. The windows of nearby high-rises were dark. No one he knew lived in those hovels. He inhaled on the Traveler. rich tobacco. A five-star restaurant. An extraordinary wine. A beautiful wife. Alone he basked in aloneness.

The waiter approached him on the sidewalk. Mark sighed thinking he might have to speak with him. He thought that until he saw the gun. It didn’t look expensive and Mark took another huff like a dead man before a firing squad, because there was no running from this fate. A bullet hit his chest, then another, each strangely without any bang. He dropped to the sidewalk on his left side. His vision was growing black and his lungs offered no help. He was a dead man and none of his wealth was going to change that.