Beaufort Bar – The Savoy Hotel, London

It was half-past eleven – closing time.

Standing behind the mahogany counter of the Beaufort Bar, Sophie let her gaze trace over the polished tabletops and along the golden coves to her sole remaining guest. The man had come in shortly after eight, picked a seat in the corner and ordered a dry martini that he hadn't touched all evening.

At first glance he seemed quite ordinary. His face was pleasant yet nondescript. His suit was well cut and off the rack. Still, something about him was wrong. The stillness, the shifty eye, the deliberately unobtrusive way of scanning the room – all of it unsettled her.

Who are you? What are you doing here? Sophie challenged him mockingly in her mind.

The sound of footsteps interrupted her idle musings. She looked up to see Zumstein and the afternoon's mysterious arrival step over the threshold, a protection detail – three men with earpieces and shrewd eyes – trailing two steps behind them.

"This way please, Mr Ronov," Zumstein said in his usual gracious and somewhat servile tone, holding the door and motioning ahead.

Ronov stepped past him. As he moved into the soft glow of the chandeliers, Sophie saw him properly for the first time. He was in his thirties, handsome, tall and lean, with striking blue eyes and light brown hair. Dressed with unpretentious elegance – tailored Italian suit, crisp white shirt, no tie – he had the deliberate reserve of a man who did not only command vast power and wealth but was keenly aware of both.

"I will leave you in the capable hands of our staff, Mr Ronov. Should you require anything at all, I – and of course any of the butlers assigned to the Royal Suite – will be delighted to assist you."

Ronov dismissed Zumstein with a contemptuous nod – just the slightest inclination of the head – then turned and walked straight to the far end of the room, while his bodyguards following at his heels like a pack of well-trained terriers. As they passed her, Sophie caught a fleeting glimpse of burnished metal under their unbuttoned blazers.

Guns.

The sight sent an uneasy shiver down her spine. During her two years at the Savoy, she had seen plenty of distinguished visitors come and go, but even for an establishment that regularly housed statesmen and royalty, an armed, three-man-strong security team trailing at a guest's heels was not an everyday sight.

Trying to shake off the vague sense of apprehension, Sophie waited until Ronov was seated and his guards were positioned around him, then she picked up a menu, stepped over to Ronov's table and greeted him with a tactful smile – polite, restrained yet sufficiently obliging to placate even the most demanding and fastidious member of the moneyed aristocracy.

"Good evening, Mr Ronov, would you like to order straightaway or do you prefer to see the menu first?"

Ronov measured her with a derisive curl of the lip as if her welcome had somehow failed to live up to the standard of the pampered oligarch. Polite reticence clearly did not cut it for Ronov, and judging by his derisive expression, nothing short of grovelling deference would.

"A Macallan 25, no ice, and a glass of water," he said finally.

His voice caught Sophie entirely by surprise: It was soft, melodious, and – like the man – of a cold, restrained yet powerful intensity. But the moment of surprisingly pleasant second impressions was cut short when Ronov placed a hand on the armrest and drew her attention to a far more sinister aspect of himself: His tattoos.

Peeking out from under his shirt cuff was an Orthodox cross with three horizontal beams – the lowest one slanted. At its base – inked in the same dark, almost black colour – was a domed crown sitting atop a star-shaped symbol that reminded her vaguely of a compass dial. But even more disturbing than the markings on the back of Ronov's hand were the Cyrillic letters that adorned his long, rather elegant fingers – one below each knuckle.

О М У Т

For a beat, Sophie's gaze was transfixed by the tattoos, at once repulsed and fascinated by their sinister overtone, then her eyes snapped back to his.

"Anything else, Sir?"

Her indiscretion, however fleeting, had not escaped Ronov's notice. He measured her with a hint of contempt – just a pinch – as if he could not muster any greater emotion for a mere servant, then he said: "The New York Times and some privacy."

Sophie felt her polite smile waver momentarily, but she checked herself, countering his scorn with a courteous nod. "Of course, Sir."

With a gracious smile, she slipped past Ronov's armed goons and hurried back to the counter. While she prepared Ronov's order and booked it to his room, Sophie took a quick peek at his guest file on the screen under the counter:

Name: Alexei Alexandrovich Ronov

Room: Royal Suite

Duration of Stay: 14th February – 15th February

Annotation: VIP / ZUM

ZUM was the acronym for Zumstein and its addition to the guest file meant that the Savoy's managing director looked personally after Ronov's wellbeing – either because Alexei Alexandrovich was a particularly difficult guest or an extremely generous one.

Most likely both.

Closing the window with a keystroke, Sophie picked up the tray and went back to Ronov. When she placed the newspaper on his table, he thanked her with a barely perceptible nod, unfolded the paper, bowed his patrician head and began his silent study of the day's headlines.

Sophie left him to his own devices, certain that Ronov would call instantly if he required anything else.

But he did not.

Instead, after about ten minutes, Ronov stopped reading, slid two fifty-pound-notes from his pocket and dropped them beside his untouched whiskey. Uttering a terse command that made his goons spring to attention, Ronov rose, picked up the New York Times and strode to the exit. His stone-faced sentries followed at his heels. Just before he slipped through the glass doors, Ronov – in an apparent change of heart – discarded the newspaper on a sideboard, then vanished into the gloom of the lobby.

Pressing her lips together, Sophie stepped around the bar to clean up after Ronov, but the eagle-eyed watcher was quicker – he left his corner table where he had lingered for the past three hours and headed for the exit. As he passed the counter, he grabbed the tattered broadsheet that Ronov had discarded there, folded it under his arm and slipped through the glass doors out into the Thames Foyer.

Author's Note - Friday, 21, May 2021

First of all, thanks a lot for reading! Unfortunatly I still haven't figured out how to reply to comments, so I'm going to leave this message here to answer the question. When I started writing the story, I did so under the premise that Christian was not adopted by his "book parents" but a Russian couple. We'll see him for most of the book under a false identity and of course with a life-story that is non-cannon. Sophie was originally Ana, also with a somewhat changed background just to make her more suitable for the AU story. As the story developed into something more original, I changed the character names along with it. But if the majority of you would rather see me go back to the "original" naming, let me know, then I can surely accommodate that (you can let me know in the comments, I'll hopefully figure out how to respond soon)!

So again, thanks a lot for taking the time to read and leaving comments!

I'll publish chapter 3 next Friday at 20:00 CET (this will be my weekly update routine, so you can always count on a chapter being up then).

Have a lovely weekend everyone!