Chapter 2 – Roman
I watched the strange waitress in silence, my eyes tracking her every move as she glided through the space—poised, elegant, and efficient.
My cousins and my younger brother, Demyon, were also seated at the table, their voices and easy laughter filling the air. They were busy discussing business, a conversation that I should be a part of, but I was distracted by the gorgeous waitress.
As I studied her like a book, I drank in every detail that my eyes could catch. Her blonde hair, cut just past her shoulders, framed her heart-shaped face. She was dressed in a crisp white top over a black skirt that accentuated her figure, her heels lifting her inches off the ground.
She was petite, with a quiet elegance that somehow managed to draw me to her. More than once, I’d tried to take my eyes off her so I wouldn’t look like a fuckin’ creep. But each time I tried, I failed. Then I noticed the way she stole hidden glances at me every now and then.
Our eyes met in a split second, and something cracked inside me. I wasn’t sure what, nor could I describe how it made me feel. She held my gaze a bit longer before one of the male staff members interrupted our little staring contest.
I watched him lean in from behind, whispering something in her ear that prompted a smile on her face. She laughed lightly as he walked past her, serving the table across. My expression darkened subtly, my right hand curling into a fist.
Who the hell was that? Her boyfriend?
She stole another glance at me and then headed toward a back door. I assumed she was going to check on our orders in the kitchen.
“Roman…Roman,” Dmitri’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Are you still with us, brother?”
I blinked once, my eyes sweeping across their faces.
“You seem lost,” Yulian added, reclining in his chair, his green eyes pinned on me.
My brother, Demyon, laughed lightly. “She’s distracted by the beautiful waitress,” he teased, then quickly added, “Oh, here she comes.”
I shifted my attention back to her as she approached us, her heels clicking against the floor—soft and rhythmic. “Gentlemen, I apologize for the delay.” She halted at our table, a tray of dishes balanced on her hand.
“No worries,” Demyon said, shooting a quick look at me.
“Here you go.” She served each of us our plates with a polite smile on her face, seemingly unaffected by who we were.
Most waiters and waitresses often trembled when serving us at any restaurant. But not this one—not this petite blonde who exuded an air of confidence. She either didn’t know who we were or didn’t care at all. Either way, her bravery was remarkable.
When she looked at me, I noticed how her hazel eyes shifted between gold and green under the chandelier’s soft light. Beautiful.
The scent of her perfume drifted into my nostrils—nice. Cheap. But nice. Beneath it, the air carried the aroma of seared butter, grilled steak, and the sweetness of grazed carrots.
While she was still serving us, something caught my attention on the wall at the bar across. An oil painting: a sweeping landscape of deep blues and pale fields, framed in gold.
“I’ll never understand your obsession with art,” Dmitri said after tracing my gaze. “That one, for instance, is just a bunch of colors thrown together.”
I leaned back in my chair. “That, cousin, happens to be a Monet.”
He raised his brows, unimpressed. “And I’m supposed to know what that is?”
“Impressionism,” I said simply.
He paused for a second, a glint of confusion in his eyes. “Yeah, perhaps if you spoke English, I just might understand you.”
“Actually,” the waitress chipped in, her voice soft and gentle. “It’s Renoir. Not Monet.”
For a moment, the table fell silent, and all my brothers shifted their gazes to me. The waitress had the guts to correct me? That’s a first.
I turned to her, my pride slightly pricked. “Is it now?”
“Yeah,” she answered. “You can tell by the brushstrokes. You see, while Monet’s style was looser—more about atmosphere—Renoir paid more attention to the light and the people in it.”
Her explanation was flawless, seamless, like she knew exactly what she was saying.
I should have been bothered by her interruption or by the fact that she corrected me in front of all my brothers. But I wasn’t. Instead, I was impressed.
“Most people mistake that piece for Monet,” she added. “It’s a common assumption.”
“You sound so sure of yourself,” I said, eyes fixed on her.
She glanced at me. “I am.” Her voice was low and steady. “Studied Arts History in college.” She paused, her gaze lingering on me for a few more seconds. “Matter of fact, I finished my final exams today.”
“Fresh out of college,” Dmitri said, a cocky grin playing on his lips. “Congrats.”
“Thank you,” she answered.
My gaze sharpened as I watched her in silence, her hands moving with practiced ease while serving our food and drinks.
“Gentlemen,” she said, straightening her spine. “Enjoy your meal.”
Demyon and Dimitri gave her a curt nod, and with that, she turned around and left our table. While they ate, I couldn’t bring myself to take my eyes off her completely. This petite blonde had awakened a newfound interest within me.
I was distracted for most of the meeting. Even after we left the restaurant, I barely said a word to my brother in the backseat of the car as we drove away. He’d been on his phone for the past fifteen minutes anyway.
In my head, I kept replaying the brief encounter with the courageous waitress in the restaurant.
Her voice still echoed in the back of my mind, reminding me of the subtle humiliation she put me through.
I was there to eat and have a good time with my brothers, not to be corrected by a gorgeous young blonde.
It had been a while since someone had last left a mark on me so quickly. It was both intriguing and disturbing. I recalled the flash of intelligence in her eyes and the calm edge to her tone, and it stirred something inside me.
Her boldness was unsettling, especially the way she looked me in the eyes without fear—something most men twice her size wouldn’t dare.
“Still thinking about the waitress?” Demyon’s voice cut through my thoughts.
I glanced at him with a flat expression, just in time to catch the teasing smirk on his lips.
He ignored my disinterest in indulging him. “Anyway, I’ve got news.”
My silence was his cue.
“We now know who’s behind Uncle Akim’s murder,” he declared.
I squinted. The report ignited a flame of anger within me, and my fingers clenched into a fist on my lap.
Uncle Akim was like a father to the Tarasov men—loved and respected by all of us. He was a man of valor who had taught me everything I knew. Uncle Akim was murdered a few years ago, and we hadn’t been able to find the man who did it. Until now.
This news was music to my ears, and in my mind, I was already cooking up the most gruesome ways to make the bastard suffer. I couldn’t wait to exact my revenge, and the mere thought of it darkened my face.
“Send me the files,” I said to Demyon, shifting my gaze out the window. “I’ll take care of this myself.”