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The Russian Billionaire Shamed the Waitress in Russian — Then She Used the Name Only His Father Was Allowed to Call Him

Chapter 1

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The second came when the waitress approached the table with menus.“Good evening,” she said. “My name is Nia. I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”The billionaire looked at her name tag before he looked at her face.“Wine,” he said.One of the men beside him opened the list, but the billionaire pushed it away with two fingers.“Something Georgian. Old. Not sweet.”Nia nodded. “I have a 2008 Saperavi from Kakheti that might suit the table.”That finally made him look up.His eyes were pale, almost colorless beneath the low amber lights.“You know Georgian wine?”“A little.”He answered in Russian, turning toward the silver-haired man seated to his right.“Now they teach waitresses three sentences and call them sommeliers.”The men at the table laughed.Nia did not.Her expression did not change.The billionaire’s name was Viktor Antonovich Morozov. Forty-six years old. Founder and chairman of Morozov Meridian. Shipping, metals, logistics, energy infrastructure. His face appeared often enough in financial magazines that even people who had never heard his voice recognized the severe mouth and dark hair brushed straight back from his forehead.But Nia had heard his voice before.Not this voice.Not the cold, clipped one he used in interviews.A younger voice.A boy’s voice.She placed the wine list gently beside his hand.“I’ll bring the Saperavi,” she said.Viktor’s gaze followed her for half a second longer than necessary.Dinner began badly and worsened.He sent back the zakuski because the pickled mushrooms were “too warm.” He complained that the caviar spoon was mother-of-pearl rather than horn. When a busser reached across the wrong side to remove a plate, Viktor murmured something in Russian about “training peasants in expensive jackets.”Nia understood every word.She had understood Russian before she understood why her mother sometimes cried when old songs played in the kitchen.But she gave Viktor no sign.Until the soup.She set down a bowl of solyanka in front of him.Viktor tasted it once.Then he put the spoon down.“What is this?”“Solyanka.”“I know what it is supposed to be.”He switched to Russian.“Tell the kitchen this tastes like dishwater from a provincial train station.”The silver-haired man smiled.Viktor continued, still in Russian.“And tell them not to send the American girl back. She smiles like she understands us.”Nia’s fingers tightened around the tray.The insult itself did not hurt.
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The Russian Billionaire Shamed the Waitress in Russian — Then She Used the Name Only His Father Was Allowed to Call Him

7 Part