Viktor’s face went blank. The pen he was holding slipped from his fingers and rolled onto the table. He stared at her, his mouth slightly open. The arrogance vanished, replaced by sheer shock. It was as if the statue had cracked. “What did you say?” he whispered in Hungarian, his voice trembling slightly. Livia stepped closer, lowering her voice so Preston and the others could not hear. She switched the dialect slightly, softening it to the rural accent of the eastern border, a sound that implied home, hearth, and old memories. “I said,” Livia repeated in his native tongue, “that drinking vodka on an empty stomach when you are fighting a board war is a bad strategic move. You need clarity, Mr. Molnar. Not liquor.”
Viktor blinked. He looked around the room suspiciously, then back at her. “Who are you? You are a waitress. In London. How do you speak the dialect of Heves County?” “My grandmother was Éva Kovács,” Livia said simply. “She taught me that a man who shouts at the staff is usually a man who is afraid of losing something.” Viktor sat back, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. A ghost of a smile, or perhaps shock, touched his lips. He looked at her name tag. “Livia.” “Yes, sir.” He switched back to English, testing her. “Everyone here is terrified of me.” “I’m not.” She lied. Her knees were shaking, but her voice was steady. “I’m just broke. And I need this job. So. Are we going to do this the hard way, where you fire me? Or are we going to get you something to eat that doesn’t taste like pretentious garbage?”
Viktor looked at her for a long, agonizing ten seconds. Preston, watching from the sidelines, looked ready to faint. He could not hear the words. But he saw the body language. He saw the waitress arguing with the billionaire. Then Viktor Molnar threw his head back and laughed. It was a rusty, barking sound, like an engine starting up after years of disuse. “Fine,” Viktor said in Hungarian, leaning in like a conspirator. “Forget the menu. The chef is a French idiot, isn’t he? I can taste the arrogance in the air.” “He is,” Livia agreed. “But the sous-chef is Polish. He makes a stew for the staff meal that isn’t on the menu. Potato, paprika, heavy on the pepper. It’s not fancy, but it’s warm.” Viktor’s eyes lit up with a hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with nostalgia. “Paprikash. Real paprikash.” “I’ll make him add the dumplings,” Livia promised. “Bring it,” Viktor commanded. “And bring the vodka, too. I am celebrating.” “Celebrating what?” “Finding an intelligent life form in London,” Viktor muttered.
Livia turned and walked away. As she passed Preston, the manager grabbed her arm, his face pale. “What happened?” Preston hissed. “He laughed. Why did he laugh? What did you say to him? Is he leaving?” “He’s staying,” Livia said, pulling her arm free. “And tell the kitchen to scrap the lobster. We need the staff stew. A big bowl of it.” “The— the staff stew?” Preston looked horrified. “Are you insane? You can’t serve slop to Viktor Molnar.” “Do it, Preston,” Livia said, her voice harder than it had ever been. “Or you can go tell him no.”