He’s rapping his fingers against his thigh, lips curled into a growing scowl as he eyes the stout and snobbish man before him. Illya can feel anger, warm and thick, flooding into his veins, the rhythm of his tapping only intensifying as he attempts to keep himself under control.
Tensing his jaw, Illya slowly repeats himself to the host, Russian accent thick as the words seep calmly from his lips.
“I said I had a reservation. Under the surname Wilder. It’s there. Just check again.”
Illya can’t help the glare he’s shooting at this man, who is flipping through his book of reservations at the speed of a snail, his fat fingers lazily streaming down the page as he searches the names.
It’s taking so much time. By now, he’s certain he’s made a terrible impression on whoever he’s supposed to be fake-engaged to, as well as given any enemies a half-hour head start to locating them. Even the stupidest of spies could track a man in the time this restaurant host was taking.
The spy is thinking of how easy it would be to smash the host’s head into his wooden pulpit when something new catches him off guard and keeps him from shattering any bones.