Nope.
I noticed two guards following me at a distance as I emerged from the hallway and went down the stairs. But there was no need to ask why; it was all Konstantin.
“Ah, the beautiful Mrs. Lobanov,” a middle-aged lady coming out of the kitchen greeted me with a big smile, drawing me out of my reverie.
“Uh, good morning,” I answered, walking towards the dining room.
“Oh, please forgive my manners. Good morning, ma’am,” she greeted. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”
“Thank you,” I uttered, having to muster a smile.
“Please, sit. Sit,” she rushed, pulling the first chair to the left of the head of the table out for me.
“Thanks,” I muttered, feeling overwhelmed by the unexpected welcome.
She came to stand beside me, wiping her hands on her white apron. She was chubby, about five inches shorter than me, and her chestnut eyes looked playful. Her jet black hair was done into a high, small bun.
She didn’t acknowledge the two suited-up men who now stood by the foot of the stairs like Russian statues.
“We heard you were living in Russia, so we made something from there,” she revealed, placing an empty white dish in front of me.
“We?” I repeated. “You mean yourself and Hans, or there’s a whole army?”
She giggled, covering her mouth with a hand like a teenage girl.
“We’re not so many,” she answered. “I’m Greta, the main cook.”
“Right. I’m Alina.”
“Most of us leave on Sundays, especially when the boss is overseas. That’s why you didn’t meet us all yesterday,” she explained.
“Should I?” she inquired, her hands on the covered plates at the center of the table.
“Yes, please.”
“You’re so beautiful. Hans was right,” she gushed, picking up a serving spoon. “Boss only has eyes for the best.”
I chuckled. “I’m quite sure there were no eyes involved in the story.”
I expected her to frown in confusion and ask me what I meant. Frankly, I was ready to let her and whoever cared to listen know how much of a monster their boss was. But she didn’t look surprised, in the least.
“It often starts that way, it’s not new in the boss’s world,” she uttered as she placed the plate, which now consisted of a little of, at least three different delicacies, in front of me.
“Thank you.”
“I hope you enjoy it,” she replied just before she turned to leave, and her eyes suddenly expanded. “Good morning, sir!”
Shit. I thought he’d left.
Refusing to acknowledge his presence, I dug into my food.
“Alina,” he called, his calm tone forcing me to turn to look up. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” I uttered as Sergei went ahead of him toward the entrance door.
Greta also disappeared into the kitchen, leaving both of us and the two Russian statues.
“Are you okay? Slept well?”
