9. Like the President?
LIKE THE PRESIDENT?
Ten Years Earlier
Carina hasn’t noticed me. She’s focused on the open books spread in front of her, occasionally writing in a spiral-bound notebook.
Every other student I see is on a laptop.
This is reckless. Selfish too. I feel like a stalker.
By standard definition, that’s precisely what I am.
I shadowed her for an hour yesterday, ducked into a lecture the afternoon before that.
And now I’m sneaking between stacks of books, trying to find the clearest view of the table she’s seated at.
Why? Fuck if I know. Seeing her is important somehow. This morning was brutal, and I need a reminder of existence outside of the worst parts of the world.
Of her existence, in particular.
I told myself I’d stay away after walking her back to the pool next door.
And I did—for a full year. I also hacked into Albright Academy’s records to find out where she was going to university.
When I saw she was staying in Chicago, it did occur to me that seeing her again wouldn’t be difficult.
But I didn’t plan on spending this much time stalking her, much less following her into the library to watch her fucking read.
We leave tomorrow. This is my last chance to look for months, maybe longer.
I head down a different aisle. I’m closer to Carina’s table now, near enough to notice her fingernails are painted blue as she reaches into her backpack, emerging with a yellow highlighter.
“Hey. Excuse me. Would you mind …” Giggle. “I can’t reach.”
I study the woman who’s appeared next to me. She’s smiling in a sly way I immediately recognize, eyes roving over me rather than looking at the rows of spines. The backpack slung over one shoulder suggests she’s a student.
She wasn’t exaggerating about her height. She’s petite, at least a foot shorter than my six-three.
“Which book?” I ask tersely, the ridiculousness of the situation increasing my irritation. I’m a mobster, not a goddamn librarian.
The woman steps closer, unnecessarily. “Toward the middle. Green spine with gold letters. By …”
I glance at Carina again. She’s not lost in her reading any longer. Her attention is aimed this way.
I witness the exact moment Carina’s eyes shift from the short blonde to me. Watch annoyance, surprise, confusion, and finally recognition scroll across her face.
And realize part of me wanted to get caught.
I locate the book the blonde described, hand it to her, and walk straight toward the table I’ve been surveilling for the past nineteen minutes. Attempt to ignore the uneven patter of my pulse and the absurdity of being anxious about this conversation.
My men are busy scrubbing the warehouse, where I spent this morning, with bleach, and I’m fucking nervous about admitting I came here simply to see her.
Jumping into that pool wasn’t premeditated. Her visiting “my cousin’s” last September was carefully planned to appear spontaneous. But this? I can’t pretend it’s a coincidence.
Well, I could. But I won’t. I owe her some honesty, and I don’t have to lie about this.
I slide into the open chair opposite Carina without waiting for an invitation. Without saying a word.
She stares at me. Blinks in rapid succession, like she’s questioning her eyes’ reliability.
I stare back, experiencing a similar surrealism. My fingers curl into fists beneath the table. All I feel is my own callous skin—nothing hot or sticky.
I’m out of practice with sparking polite conversation.
It’s been a while since I discussed anything that wasn’t deliberation about which traitor to torture first or asking for shipment updates.
I needed a reminder I’m capable of something other than violence.
Maybe I’m not though, and this will be a brutal realization I’m nothing more than a killing machine.
“Lev.”
That one word—the confirmation she remembers more than my face—has an electric effect. Something firm to focus on amid a sea of uncertainty.
I incline my chin. “Carina.”
She blushes, and it’s beautiful. She’s beautiful.
Older than the girl I remember. Her hair is shorter, barely brushing her shoulders.
Her face has narrowed, making the symmetry of her bone structure more noticeable.
She’s wearing a maroon sweatshirt with the university’s logo printed on the front, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
Carina leans closer.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. “Are you … a student?” Her voice lowers, even though there’s no one seated at the closest table.
Instinctively discreet, which I’m impressed by.
Most women talk and laugh louder when I’m nearby, trying to hold my interest or to draw others’ attention to our association.
I nearly smile at the second question. She sounds dubious, too, knowing it’s an unlikely possibility.
“No. Just visiting. I’m here to see you.”
Her eyebrows lift an inch. “How did you know where to find me?”
I reach out and pick up her highlighter, spinning it around one finger. “Lucky guess.”
I admitted I came to see her. She’s better off not knowing about the cybercrimes.
“What are you doing in Chicago?”
I toss the highlighter back on the table, my mood immediately darkening. “Work.”
“Please, don’t overexplain.”
I savor her sarcasm, soaking it in slowly. No one, with the exception of Aleksandr when I outperform him or Maksim when I scold him, is brave enough to talk back to me.
I nod at the open books. “What are you studying?”
“These are for my Greek mythology seminar,” she answers. “But I’m planning to major in music.”
“Do you play?”
“Violin. Since I was little.” She picks up the same highlighter I was fiddling with, rolling it between her fingers. “I joined the intramural swim team.”
It takes me a moment to decipher the strange emotion swelling in my chest. Pride, I finally decide.
“Good for you.”
She blushes again.
My phone begins buzzing in my pocket. I swear under my breath as I pull it out, already knowing what the summons must mean. I left clear instructions. If someone’s calling, there’s a serious issue.
“I have to go,” I tell Carina, allowing some regret to seep into my voice. If I hadn’t been such a coward about approaching her, we would have had more time.
“Oh. Okay.”
I blame the small shrug that follows, the half-hearted attempt at covering her disappointment, for my next words. “Are you free tonight?”
Her eyes widen before she nods.
I nod too. “The Peninsula. Eight p.m.”
“Your work must pay well,” she comments. Her tone is careful, gaze alert and aware as she stares at me. Not a question, yet delivered like one.
I tense. If she searches for answers, my coming here was a fatal mistake. I’m not asking her out on a fucking date.
“If you show up, we will not be talking.” I deliver the statement bluntly, then hold her gaze, ensuring she understands.
It’s the clearest warning I can issue. Other women might talk and laugh loudly, but they know not to ask questions. Especially ones about my work.
“I figured,” she says, and I hope she’s telling the truth.
“The room will be under Levi Lincoln,” I tell her.
Her lips twitch. “Lincoln? Like the president?”
“Like the car.”
I stand and walk away, not looking back once.