Page 65 of Unholy Tsar

CECILIA

“I don’t know if this was such a good idea after all,” I mumble to myself.

Too bad I’m only realizing now.

Taking my seat, I’m struck by the incredible beauty and opulence of the hotel restaurant. It’s almost too extravagant, a stark contrast to my inner turmoil—a messy, conflicted storm that’s only just barely constrained by an endless rush of relief.

When I woke up this morning, Maksim told me he’d taken care of my demon, once and for all. He assured me that Trey would never bother me again.

And I want to believe him, I truly do. But a small part of me is still in disbelief. How could Maksim handle it all so easily? After all this running and suffering and sadness I’ve endured, all I really had to do was ask a man to take care of it for me?

No, I remind myself. Maksim isn’t just any man. He’s a king. And it’s never been clearer than it is right now.

As I look around, it’s obvious we’re surrounded by some of the most prominent dinner guests in the country—politicians, movie stars, titans of industry. And they’re all staring at us—Maksim and me.

I knew Maksim was a big deal, but this is something else. If I had known we’d attract this kind of attention, maybe I wouldn’t have accepted his offer to celebrate my newfound freedom in his hotel’s five-star restaurant.

But it’s too late to back out now.

A waiter comes up to us, visibly shaking. I try to sit up straighter as he executes a bow so deep his head nearly touches his knees. “W–would you like to or–order now?”

My brows fly up, but I speak to him kindly. “I’m not quite sure yet.” I’ve only had the chance to give the menu a cursory glance. “Why don’t you surprise me?”

The waiter goes pale, like I just said I want his tongue for breakfast. “W–what? I—I don’t—what if you don’t like it?”

I give him a reassuring smile. “I’ll just have to suck it up, since I’m the one who asked you to surprise me. But I’m sure I’ll love it. Everything on the menu looks so delicious.”

He gulps and turns to Maksim with great reluctance. After jotting down Maksim’s order, he executes another deep bow and quickly hurries away.

“They’re all so scared of you,” I observe. Scared shitless.

“I have no idea why,” he teases.

“Just pretend to be impressed with whatever it is he brings for me and—”

“Mr Smolov!” A loud voice suddenly cuts me off.

I turn my head to see the first brave soul approach us. He’s a thick-set man, heavy in the middle, with jowls in his chins and a pair of thin spectacles.

“Mr. Smolov, it is such an honor to eat my meal in the same restaurant as you,” he says, his voice filled with admiration. “I’m Daniel Richardson, and I’m a huge fan of your chain of restaurants. Let me tell you, it’s an absolute feat that you manage to maintain an authentic taste throughout all your branches.”

He continues to talk for several more minutes, waxing lyrical about Maksim’s smart business choices, while we both sit and listen politely. “Here, please take my card. I would be honored to do business with you someday,” he finishes, placing his business card on the table in front of Maksim.

Maksim simply responds, “I’ll think about it.”

The man dips his head and ambles away, practically clicking his heels.

That seems to be the signal for everyone else to realize they can approach us without the fear of immediate death. Soon enough, every Tom, Dick, and Harry is flocking around our table, jumping at the chance to suck up to Maksim.

Their attention is so focused on him that they hardly even notice when the waiter brings out our meals, only slightly moving out of the way. They don’t stop talking as we eat.

I’m ignored for the most part, which suits me just fine. Otherwise, I doubt I could swallow a single bite. Somehow, though, Maksim handles it all with grace.

When we finish eating, our waiter slips through the crowd to clear our table, and I muster the courage to speak up for the first time. “You made a great choice,” I pause to read his name tag, “Keith. The meal was amazing. Thank you.”

Keith reddens and bows awkwardly before scurrying off.

Gradually, the crowd starts to dissipate, giving us some much-needed space. But right as we’re about to get up, another man approaches our table. He’s obviously Italian, with his olive skin, mop of black and gray hair, and piercing dark eyes. He’s older, maybe even older than Maksim, and he walks with an arrogant swagger.