Page 65 of The Secret Dinner

for a very special evening of exotic flavors

prepared exclusively in our kitchen by Chef V. H.

This unforgettable culinary experience

is reserved for a select few guests, including you.

As previously stated, the dinner shall take place at

XX o’clock on the XX day of XX of XXXX.

The contents of this message are top secret.

We are counting on your discretion and ask that you respect

the following rules in preparation for this magical night:

Discussing the dinner with others is not permitted.

Guests will wait at a predetermined location for our drivers. You are required to wear a blindfold.

Plus-ones are not permitted. Each invitation is unique and nontransferrable.

Canceling or leaving the venue before the dinner has concluded is not permitted.

The use of cell phones and other electronic devices will not be permitted. We ask you to keep this experience only in your memory—and on your tongue.

Best regards,

FORMAL ATTIRE IS MANDATORY

GOURMET CANNIBALISM

1

Our first step was to find a house.

“We can’t have guests coming here,” Umberto had said, his eyes wandering around our living room. “We can’t shit where we eat!”

I arranged viewings at properties in Vargem Pequena, Pedra de Guaratiba, and Recreio dos Bandeirantes. We needed something spacious with a nice outdoor area and, most important, secluded enough that no one would raise an eyebrow at all the cars coming and going, dropping people off on dinner nights. I was careful only to visit properties that weren’t managed by the same agency that managed our apartment. I wanted to avoid suspicion. I showed Umberto my best options, but he didn’t like any of them.

“Rich people hate to travel far,” he said, in his booming radio announcer’s voice. “The location is the soul of a business, Dante. Imagine someone spending over half an hour in a car blindfolded! These dinners have to be held close to Copacabana, near the beach. Downtown at most. Get in touch with my lawyer, she can assist you.” Umberto’s lawyer was Cecília Couto, the curly-haired woman who’d had dinner at our apartment. Apparently, their relationship went beyond the extramarital affair. We arranged a meeting. She looked even thinner and taller than I remembered, like a withered tree.

“I was glad to hear you guys will be hosting other, you know … dinners. I’ll be a regular customer,” she said, grinning like a hyena. Then she handed me a list of houses in Rio de Janeiro.

That afternoon, we visited six properties on Estrada da Canoa, nestled in just outside Tijuca National Park, before arriving at a house in Jardim Botânico. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was the one. It was a luxury three-story villa, tucked away at the end of a dead-end street, with a large deck overlooking the mountain vegetation. At the entrance was a hunter-green gate and a high wall overgrown with weeds that enclosed the entire perimeter, creating a significant obstacle for trespassers.

Not even including the five-car garage and the small guesthouse in the back, the villa’s ground floor alone was the size of our entire apartment. The dining room housed a modern red ten-seater table illuminated by a handcrafted oval chandelier with colorful details. Aubusson tapestries hung on the walls, depicting bucolic landscapes with forests, castles, and birds. Later, I learned that the house belonged to a French family who rarely set foot in Brazil.

As soon as we signed the deal, Umberto called me.

“Our first dinner will be next Saturday. On Friday, all of you will come over to my place so we can iron out the details. I went ahead and deposited a little bonus into your account to be split four ways.”

I checked my online banking, and that “little bonus” was 80,000 reals. The right thing to do was to split the money five ways—Cora had become an essential part of our group.

“Absolutely not. She’s a parasite at best,” said Hugo.

“Hey, my baby girl does all the butchering,” Piglet snapped back. “Miguel doesn’t do anything!”