The air on the restaurant’s balcony is cooler than expected, tinged with salt and the faint scent of wine and sea. Below, the lights of Monte Carlo glitter like a bed of stars spilled across the coast. Max leans lightly on the railing, jacket open, one hand wrapped around a lowball glass, the ice inside barely shifting. His voice is low, steady, like the city beneath them.

“You always pick the right place,” he murmurs, glancing sideways.