Livia’s heart hammered against her ribs. Her grandmother, Nagymama Éva, had raised her. Éva had fled the border regions during the upheaval of the eighties. She had refused to speak English in the house. For eighteen years, Livia’s life had been a soundtrack of that complex, melodic, vowel-heavy language. She knew the rhythm of it better than she knew the lyrics to any pop song.
Viktor’s phone buzzed. He unmuted it, forgetting, or not caring, that the waitress was standing there. A voice crackled from the speaker. A man’s voice, aggressive and loud, speaking rapidly in Hungarian. “Viktor, they have the leverage. The board votes in an hour. If you don’t have the grandfather’s signatures, the merger is dead. They will strip you of the assets.” Viktor cursed under his breath, replying in the same language, his voice a low growl. “I am in London, idiot. The papers were supposed to be here. I am surrounded by incompetent English fools who cannot even pour water, let alone facilitate a secure transfer.” “The courier is stuck at Heathrow,” the voice on the phone argued. “You need to stall. Eat dinner. Calm down. Don’t let them see you sweat.” “I cannot eat,” Viktor snapped in Hungarian. “My stomach is in knots. This menu is pretentious garbage. Foie gras. Truffles. I want something real. I want— God, I just want peace.”
He slammed the phone back to mute and looked up, finally acknowledging Livia. His eyes were cold, expecting another trembling waiter. “Well,” he barked in English. “Are you deaf? I said vodka.” Livia stood her ground. She did not write anything down. She looked him directly in the eyes, breaking the cardinal rule of serving VIPs. She took a breath, channeling the tone her grandmother used when Livia had scraped her knee. Firm. Warm. And undeniably authoritative.
“Vodka won’t settle your stomach if you have an ulcer from stress,” Livia said. The silence that followed was absolute. She had not spoken in English. She had spoken in perfect, fluent Hungarian.