At 7:55 p.m., the atmosphere in the restaurant shifted. It was a physical change, like the air pressure dropping before a storm. The music seemed to quiet. The kitchen chatter ceased. The double doors at the front entrance swung open. Viktor Molnar walked in. He was taller than he looked on the news, wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Livia’s childhood home. He did not walk. He glided, flanked by two bodyguards who looked like they were carved out of granite. Viktor had a face that was handsome but hard. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes the color of ice. A mouth set in a permanent line of dissatisfaction.
Preston rushed forward, bowing so low it looked painful. “Mr. Molnar. Welcome. It is the honor of a lifetime to—” Viktor walked right past him without breaking stride. He moved toward the best table in the East Wing, the one by the fireplace. He sat down, checked his watch, and placed a black smartphone on the table. Preston scrambled to catch up, snapping his fingers at Gregory. “Water. Sparkling. 1998 vintage reserve. Now.”
Livia watched from the doorway of the terrace, unable to look away. She saw Gregory approach the table, a silver pitcher in hand, looking confident. He poured the water with a flourish. Viktor Molnar stared at the glass. Then he looked up at Gregory. He said one word, his voice low but carrying across the silent room. “Ice.” Gregory froze. “Sir?” “I did not ask for ice,” Viktor said, his accent thick, heavy, and dripping with disdain. “Why is there ice in my glass?” “I— it is standard procedure, sir,” Gregory stammered. Viktor picked up the glass and dropped it. He did not throw it. He just opened his hand. It shattered on the marble. Crash. “Get out,” Viktor said softly. “Sir, I can—” Viktor did not look at Gregory. He looked at his bodyguards. Preston sprinted over, grabbing Gregory by the arm and dragging the pale head waiter away. “I am so sorry, Mr. Molnar. A mistake. A terrible mistake. Timothy, you’re up.”
Timothy, a junior waiter with shaking hands, was shoved toward the table. Livia watched in horror. This was not a dinner. It was an execution. Timothy lasted four minutes. He tried to recite the specials. Viktor interrupted him, asking a question about the sourcing of the venison. Timothy stuttered, looking at his notepad. Viktor waved his hand, and the bodyguard stepped forward. Timothy fled the table in tears. The dining room was dead silent. Other guests were too terrified to eat. Preston was hyperventilating near the POS station. “He’s going to leave,” Preston moaned, wiping sweat from his forehead. “He’s going to walk out, and he’s going to tweet about it, and we are finished.”