Lindsay
Every new day comes with new declarations. When my eyes open on a beautiful Friday morning, my first day off in a while, I tell myself that I’m going to have a good day.
The past few weeks have come with a myriad of emotions. But today the only thing I’m going to feel is ease. No work, no thinking about mafia men with dark eyes. Or my father or anything to do with that world. I’m going to be happy.
Before I moved out of my father’s mansion, I had a routine.
Every morning, when I woke up, I’d go on a run.
It was easier then because we had acres of space on the property and no one ever bothered me.
The hotel is smack dab in the middle of the city and there’s a lot of foot traffic, which isn’t ideal for running.
There’s a park close by, though. One I can make use of to release some tension. I get out of bed and take a quick shower before picking out a blue sports bra and leggings to match.
The city is quieter this early. It’s not silent but it’s definitely muted under the pale stretch of morning light just beginning to settle over the skyline. I pull up along the curb, the engine of my car barely making a sound as it comes to a stop.
The door opens, cool air meeting me as I step out, already tying my hair back as I move toward the entrance of Central Park. The path ahead is open, scattered with early runners, dog walkers, people moving through their routines without paying attention to anyone else.
Which suits me perfectly. I fall into pace quickly, my steps steady, measured. The rhythm comes easy. Breath in, breath out. The quiet impact of my shoes against the pavement is grounding enough to push everything else back.
The path curves, trees lining either side, the city fading just enough to feel distant. For a while, there’s nothing but movement. No questions, no pressure, no one watching.
By the time I slow, my pulse is elevated, breath heavier but even.
I walk the last stretch, letting it taper off naturally before spotting an empty bench just off the path.
I sit, leaning forward slightly, forearms resting on my knees as I catch my breath.
I take off my backpack, pulling out the book I tucked inside.
It’s new. I got it yesterday from the library Valentina used to work at.
It’s a copy of an African prose novel by a writer called Chinua Achebe, called Things Fall Apart.
I read it a long time ago with my mom. It was amazing.
I turn the book over once in my hands before setting it down on the bench.
Someone will take it. They always do.
I brush my hands lightly against my leggings as I stand, walking away.
“Excuse me.”
The voice is close enough to stop me mid-step. It’s also British. I turn. There’s a man standing a few feet away, one hand tucked casually into the pocket of his jeans, the other gesturing lightly toward the bench. At the book.
“You left that,” he says.
I glance at it, then back at him. “I know.”
There’s a brief pause. He studies me, something curious in his expression. And then he steps toward the bench and picks up the book.
“You left it intentionally?” he asks, walking close to me now.
Not enough to crowd my space, but enough to show interest. I notice his height first. He’s tall, and blond, lean like a surfer. It’s pretty clear he’s in good shape, especially since I can see his muscles contracting under the blue shirt he’s wearing.
He’s also pretty good looking. The type of good looking that’s impossible not to notice.
“Yeah. You can have that,” I tell him, nodding towards the book in his hands.
“Chinua Achebe,” he reads out loud, studying the book before meeting my gaze again. “Can’t say I’ve ever come across the author.”
“You’ll like it.”
“So, you just leave books lying around in parks?”
“Among other places,” I say. “Anywhere people might pick one up.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly, “So what’s the idea? Civic generosity? Literary charity?”
“A little bit of both.” I shrug. “I’m just giving people access to something they might not have gone looking for.”
He smiles and it softens him a little. I don’t miss the flicker of interest in his eyes.
“You are not what I was expecting, Ms. Beaumont.”
Panic flits through me and I’m immediately on edge. “And who are you?”
He doesn’t look threatening. But men in parks who know my name and intentionally approach me aren’t exactly friendly in my book.
He straightens slightly, extending a hand. “Relax. I’m not a bad guy.”
“You’d be surprised by just how many bad guys say they aren’t one,” I mutter.
He arches an amused brow. “I’m Edward Fadden,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m supposed to meet you on Monday.”
I take his hand, feeling brief, recognition. He’s the FBI agent I’m supposed to correspond with on the RICO case.
“Lindsay Beaumont.”
“I know,” he says easily. “I have to say, you are nothing like what I was expecting.”
“And what were you expecting?”
“Well, I knew you were gorgeous, just didn’t think you’d be into cute, quirky things like this,” he says, raising the book with a small smile.
I study him for a second, recalibrating, “What are the chances that you just happened to show up here?”
The question is careful, cautious. FBI agent or not, if he’s a stalker, then I need to be wary.
Fadden considers that, “Low,” he admits. “But not impossible. I take walks around this park sometimes. Helps me clear my head.”
I hold his gaze, choosing to believe him. “Alright. And how may I help you, Agent Fadden?”
“Well, I was hoping we could grab a coffee? Maybe talk about the case. Since we already ran into each other, it would be a waste,” he states.
“It’s my day off,” I tell him.
He grins. “And?”
“And I’m not supposed to be working.”
“Haven’t you heard, Ms. Beaumont? Crime doesn’t sleep. It certainly doesn’t take days off. Come on, let’s have a coffee together. I promise not to keep you too long.”
“If I say no, I’ll look like a bitch.”
“Exactly,” he agrees, and I roll my eyes. “Let’s go. There’s a café not far from here.”
“We can take my car,” I say on a sigh, leading him toward the curb.
He lets out a small appreciative whistle when his gaze lands on the car.
“A Mercedes-Maybach S-Class,” he says slowly. “They said you were a rich girl. But you’ve got a lot of style too, Ms. Beaumont.”
I frown. “Who said?”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he tells me. “Although it’s nothing compared to meeting you personally. You grow more interesting the more time I spend with you.”
I meet his gaze with an unflinching one of my own. “Okay, you need to tone down the flirting. Especially if we’re going to be working together.”
“Who says I’m flirting with you?” he retorts, grinning. “It’s the accent. British people can’t help their natural charm.”
My nose wrinkles and I open the driver’s side door. “Well if you could please dial down your charm a little, Agent Fadden, maybe we’ll be able to work together.”
“I’ll do my best,” he says solemnly, moving around to the passenger side. “I’m sure we’ll work great together, rich girl.”
He winks and I roll my eyes again. I know all about guys like Fadden. And usually I’d be inclined to play along with him. He’s the exact type of guy I should be drawn to. But we do have to work together, and lately my thoughts are constantly consumed by a man that has no business in my head.
Right before I get into the car, though, something shifts in the air.
It’s subtle, a feeling more than anything else.
Like I’m being watched. I glance up, then look behind me.
My eyes scan the street, the park entrance, the scattered movement of people passing by.
But there’s nothing unusual. No one lingering or looking.
Still, the feeling doesn’t leave.
“Everything alright?” Fadden asks, watching me.
He’s more serious than he was a minute ago. There’s a beat, and then I reply.
“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”
I get into the car, shutting the door, the interior falling into that familiar, insulated quiet. Fadden does as well. I still can’t shake that feeling. It almost felt like Matteo Vitale was near. Like I could feel his intense eyes on me.
I am officially going crazy.
Trying my best to brush it off, I start the engine of the car, pulling out into traffic. Like he can tell something’s wrong, Fadden doesn’t say anything until we’re at the café. We step out of the car and are walking toward the door when he speaks.
“Are you on edge because you’re worried about Bratva retaliation?” he asks, gaze fixed on mine.
I chew on the inside of my lip, “No.”
“Well you should be,” he corrects. “I’m surprised you don’t have any protection. You’re rich, Ms. Beaumont. Get yourself a couple of bodyguards. This isn’t the Little League, and these people you’re going after are dangerous.”
I feel a bright spark of irritation at his tone and his words. I’ve had enough of these men telling me that I can’t handle myself.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I tell him, my voice hard and resolute.
“Alright,” he says on a smile. “You’re confident. I like it.”
“Let’s just go talk about our game plan.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We head into the café and after ordering our drinks, we take our seats. The farthest one from all the other patrons, right by the window. Since he’s more acquainted with the case, Fadden starts.
“You already went through the case file, right?”
I nod.
“Good. So you know who the big players are,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee before speaking again, “The Volkovs are in charge of the Russian mafia in this city. The big guys. And the head of the family, the Pakhan as they call him, is Maksim Volkov. He’s an old man who hasn’t been seen in a couple of months.
Some say he’s sick and dying, others say his absence is strategic.
In the time he’s been absent, though, his lieutenants have run wild all over the city.
There have been several slip-ups, which is why this is the best time to strike.
The Russians are the weakest crime syndicate in this city. They’re the easiest to get rid of.”