Chapter 8

Cyrus left his address with the smokehouse staff so they could deliver the packs later. He could always fetch fresh meat and vegetables from Volmart's warehouse when the time came. Barbecue rubs and sauces were another matter. Restaurants never sold their real recipes, and supermarket bottles were cheap knock-offs, nothing close to the genuine article. If they were, nobody would bother eating at a smokehouse in the first place.

After his meal, he headed home, only to receive a call from the manager of the five-star hotel.

"Mr. Knovell, your 500 tables' worth of food is ready. Are you available to receive it now?"

"Yes. Send it over," Cyrus replied.

By the time he returned, the convoys were already en route. Five hundred tables would feed him for at least two to three years. With nearly 1,400,000 dollars still in hand, he was far from stingy. If anything, he was eager to spend it all.

He thought of more dishes he liked on the way back. He called several of Volaris' most famous restaurants and placed orders for an additional hundred tables at each. That covered eight major cuisines and ethnic fine dining, thousands of tables in total. It was enough to cover half a lifetime of meals.

Not long after, the Grand Heritage Hotel's convoy rolled up to the gates of Cervusa Residence. Two or three dozen catering trucks clogged the entrance, drawing a crowd of neighbors.

Kenneth Uthman, the complex's security guard, rushed forward nervously. "Hold up! What's all this?"

The hotel manager explained, but Kenneth insisted the property owner appear in person before allowing anyone through. With a delivery this massive, he could not take any chances.

Dylan called Cyrus, who came downstairs promptly. By then, the gate teemed with curious onlookers—neighbors, children, gossiping women. Even Diana and Natalie were there, eyes wide at the commotion.

"Kenneth, it's my delivery. Let them in," Cyrus said with a smile.

"Delivery?" Kenneth blinked. "What kind of food takes a dozen trucks to bring?"

The crowd erupted.

"Look at that! Must be hundreds of tables!"

"Is Cyrus hosting a wedding banquet or something?"

"Even if he is, who needs hundreds of tables worth of food?"

"Hold on. That logo—that's the Grand Heritage! A five-star hotel!"

"One table there runs into the hundreds. Hundreds of them? That's a fortune!"

"My god, one banquet worth over 100 grand! Cyrus has been hiding his wealth all along!"

The neighbors' eyes burned with awe and envy.

Diana bit her lip, her resolve hardening. This man had to be hers.

She approached with a bright smile. "Cyrus, what's going on at home lately? Why are you stocking up so much food?"

Cyrus ignored her, lit a cigarette, and offered one to Kenneth.

The guard nodded and swung the gates open. The convoy rolled in, and Cyrus led the way.

Diana stuck close and asked in a soft, honeyed voice, "Why not tell me? We're friends, aren't we? You can trust me. I just want to know you better."

Cyrus gave her a long, cold look, then smirked. "These? They're for my boss. Same with the Michelin-starred meal last time—he paid for them. If I really had that kind of money, life would be easier."

Her face drained of color. "You're joking, right?"

He spread his hands. "Why would I? You've known me for years. My parents are gone, and I'm just a warehouse supervisor. Where would I get that kind of money?"

Her mind reeled. Real heirs usually came from families running major businesses. Cyrus' parents had been gone for years. He might have inherited some property, but that did not make him a rich heir. Also, he just confirmed that he was ordinary, neither wealthy nor powerful.

Her smile faltered. She stepped back, smoothed her hair, and forced a polite grin. "Well, rich or not, we're still best friends, aren't we? I'm not some gold digger."

She lingered on the word friends. A true bitch would never burn bridges. A backup was still a backup.

Cyrus curled his lip in disdain and said no more.

Meanwhile, the Grand Heritage staff got to work unloading.

Cyrus had arranged with the property office to use a basement storeroom, and now the banquet tables were stacked neatly inside. Even 500 meals packed into lunchboxes took up surprisingly little space.

Prime rib, smoked salmon, Maine lobster, white truffles, caviar, aged cheeses—each box resembled a treasure chest.

Dylan shook his head in disbelief. In all his years, he had never seen an order this massive.

Cyrus waved them on. Once the staff left, he quietly transferred every last box into his pocket dimension.

Maybe people whispered. Maybe they wondered. But who really cared? Life went on, and at most, it became gossip fodder.

By evening, the 500 tables' worth of food had vanished into his personal void.

That night, Cyrus received a call from Hector of Wyvern Security.

"Our teams are ready," Hector said. "We can start the safehouse project whenever you like. When's convenient?"

"Tomorrow," Cyrus replied without hesitation.

He planned to move into a hotel while the work was done.

After wrapping up that discussion, Cyrus waited for Hector to bring up the matter he still needed most: the weapons.

Hector hesitated before lowering his voice. "If you truly want them, I can introduce you to someone. But the price won't be cheap."

Cyrus' eyes narrowed. Then he nodded. "That's not a problem. As long as the quality's good."

Hector exhaled in relief. "All right. I'll make the arrangements and contact you in three days with the time and place."