Chapter 63: Codename: Aconite Chapter Thirteen
The drive is short, pleasant, and not remotely uncomfortable. His cologne fills the car with a woodsy aroma with floral undertones that make it warming to the senses. He looks relaxed, with not a care or worry that this is his final night on Earth. In no time at all, we’re pulling up to a dimly lit building, where he parks and gets out, handing the keys to a valet standing outside. He walks over, opens my door, and extends his hand to me. I graciously take his hand and get out of the car, smiling as he wraps his arm around my waist while closing the door behind me. With a firm but comfortable grip on me, he escorts me into the building revealing a surprisingly elegant restaurant. The lights all around are dimmed low creating a romantic ambience while a burning fire at the far end of the room offers guests warmth from the harsh Russian cold. The smell of the roaring fire fills my mind with pleasant memories while the scent of food wafting from the kitchen awakens my stomach like a snarling beast.
Silas greets a waiter who escorts us to a table in the far corner of the room. Silas pulls out my chair, and while I would much prefer to have the corner seat, I begrudgingly take my seat and smile up at him. He returns my smile and sits opposite me, undoing his jacket as he leans back looking perfectly comfortable nestled into the corner. Ideally, I would prefer his seat as it means no one can sneak up on me and I’d have the perfect view of the entire restaurant. I don’t like how exposed I feel in this seat, but best not to kick up a fuss over seating.
“This place is beautiful. How did you find it?”
“I know some of the people who work here,” he admits.
“Friends with good cars and friends with good restaurants; you’re just full of connections it seems,” I smirk, placing my purse on the table.
He chuckles, “What’s the point of having connections if you can’t use them to impress a beautiful woman?” he rhetorically asks with a flirty smile.
“You don’t hold back, do you?” My smile is wide and genuine. His confidence and flirty nature are both amusing and alluring. He’s not cocky, or smug, and most of what he says is with his tongue firmly planted in his cheek and a twinkle in his eyes. The date has only just begun and yet it’s undoubtedly the best date I’ve been on. It just saddens me to know we’re using fake names and there won’t be a follow up.
“You don’t seem like the kind of woman who wants her man to hold back. Or am I wrong?”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“You can thank my parents for that.”
“Tell me a bit about your parents,” I suggest.
He looks a little taken aback for a moment before relaxing. “Not much to say really. My parents are Moldovan, like me. My father's name is Filaret and my mother's name is Alesea. My father is a finance manager, and my mother is a housewife. We're very close, and I take after them quite a lot.”
So it's not just his name he lies about. According to the background Armand gave me, his father's name is Titus Istrati born in Moldova on 23/07/1942, while his mother's name is Talyssa Vulpe, also born in Moldova, on 12/03/1945. They had their one and only son, Silas Istrati 07/07/1964, making him only 2 years older than me. A strange man you meet, lying about his name, oddly enough, makes all the sense in the world. But lying about his parent's names is extremely suspicious. Why is this man so determined to hide every aspect of his identity? He'd probably even lie about being from Moldova if I hadn't outed him and forced him to acknowledge it. I'm starting to think Armand didn't gather all there is to gather about my target, or worst case scenario, he intentionally left some details out.
A waiter comes over to take our orders, but we haven’t had a chance to view the menu. However, Silas jumps right into action ordering for us both, and while I admit what he ordered sounds delicious, I don’t like a man making decisions for me. Bending me over and fucking me like my pussy disgraced his family and he’s enacting his revenge upon it, is one thing. Taking it upon yourself to decide what I will eat and drink, is another.
“Do I not get a say in what I get to eat?” I ask with a click of my tongue.
“Trust me, you’ll love it.”
“And what if I had allergies, or had strict eating restrictions?” I point out.
He looks at me for a moment and then nods his head. “Touché. I should have asked, I apologise. What would you like to drink?” he asks, signalling for another waiter to come over.
“Vodka rocks,” I say with a smile to the waiter.
“A vodka rocks for the lady, and a black Russian for myself,” orders Silas. The waiter nods and walks off to take our orders.
“You know a black Russian isn’t Russian, right?”
“Oh, I know. I just love drinking them,” he says with a grin.
Our drinks arrive in no time, and I gladly take a sip of mine, allowing the cool liquid to provide a smooth burn down my throat.
“That’s a beautiful ring,” Silas comments after taking a sip of his drink.
“Thank you, it’s a family heirloom,” I admit proudly.
I’m not lying when I say that. This ring is more than just a tool of my trade. This ring used to belong to my Great-Great Grandmother and was the ring she used to hold the poison that killed her father. In a way, this ring birthed my family’s legacy. The ring is an 18ct yellow gold cabochon amethyst ring, with the amethyst acting as the lid of the poison compartment. I’ve made some minor modifications to it, to allow the ring to hold liquid, vs. the classic powder poisons. While you can dissolve the powders or hide them in food, they’re not as easy to disguise if you’re using it in someone’s presence, as people tend to notice something suddenly floating in their drink or the drink suddenly turning fizzy, which is why I prefer to use liquids.
“How long has it been in your family?” he asks with genuine curiosity.
“Almost a century. I do my best to keep it safe and send it to a jeweller every couple of years to tend to its upkeep.”
“Seems far too valuable or precious to be wearing to a casual dinner date.”
“I only wear it for special occasions, and I felt this one qualified,” I simper.
He leans forward, eyes locked on mine, holding my gaze, “And what makes me so special?”
I lean forward, placing my glass down, and lightly run my nails against his hand, watching the way his pupils dilate a fraction. “Maybe something tells me tonight will be a night to remember.”
The way he’s looking at me is as if he’s staring into my dark, tainted soul and for some unfathomable reason, is loving what he sees. Who is this man? And why do I have to feel so drawn to him when I know I have to kill him?
“You sound so sure of yourself.”
“I don’t make it a habit of saying things I’m unsure of,” I tease.
I discreetly turn my ring over and proceed to reach over to grab his drink as if to take a sip, but he quickly places his hand over the top of his glass, slides it back over to him, lifts it, and takes a sip with a devilish smirk.
“You have your own.”
I pout and flutter my eyelashes. “I only wanted a sip.”
My coquettish display doesn’t break him even a fraction. He’s a gentleman, but not so much that he’d just hand his drink over to a strange woman. Which is smart on his part, and mildly annoying on mine. I decide my next best option is to wait until he gets up to go to the bathroom, and seize the opportunity then, so in the meantime, I’ll just bide my time.