Livia looked at Preston, who was currently cleaning up the spilled water on his hands and knees. She looked at the door where the sharks had just left. She took off her apron and threw it on the table. “Follow me,” she said. They ran toward the kitchen, not as patron and server, but as allies in a war that was rapidly spiraling out of control. But as they burst through the kitchen doors, Livia realized one terrifying thing. Arthur Pendleton was not the type of man to just walk away. And the back exit of the restaurant was unguarded.
The descent into the belly of the Kensington Royale felt like entering a bunker. The polished marble gave way to cracked linoleum and exposed pipes that hissed with steam. Livia led Viktor through the frantic kitchen, past the staff and Jean-Luc, and down a narrow flight of concrete stairs. “The office is at the end of this corridor,” Livia said, her breath hitching. “It’s a relic. Preston refuses to upgrade the phone system because he’s cheap. It’s a direct copper line. No Wi-Fi. No cloud. No interception.” Viktor followed her, his expensive shoes clicking sharply on the concrete. He was checking his watch every three seconds. “If I can reach my chairman— Silas Vance. Wait. No. Silas is with them. If I can reach the treasurer, Marcus Reed, I can trigger the emergency pause. But I only have eleven minutes.”
They reached the door labeled Private. Manager. Livia fumbled with her master key and pushed it open. The room was cramped, smelling of stale coffee and old paper. On the desk sat a heavy beige rotary-style telephone from the nineties. Viktor did not waste a second. He lunged for the desk, snatching the receiver. He began dialing a long international string of numbers from memory. “Come on, Marcus. Pick up,” Viktor muttered in Hungarian. Livia stood by the door, her heart hammering. She felt a strange vertigo. Ten minutes ago, she was worried about a broken glass. Now she was an accomplice in a corporate coup.
Suddenly, the heavy steel door at the top of the stairs creaked. Livia froze. She stepped out into the hallway just enough to look up. Through the gap in the stairs, she saw feet. Not the sensible shoes of the kitchen staff. These were polished black Oxfords. Two pairs. “They’re here,” Livia whispered, ducking back into the office. Viktor was on the phone, speaking rapidly in Hungarian. “Marcus, listen to me. The Apex contract is a fraud. They’ve inserted a liquidation clause. I’m invoking Article 9. Yes, the scorched-earth protocol. Do it now.” “Mr. Molnar,” Livia hissed. “Pendleton’s men. They didn’t leave. They followed us.” Viktor looked up, his face grim. He held up a finger, still talking into the phone. “I don’t care about the stock dip. Just freeze the vote. I have the evidence of bad-faith negotiations.”