I don’t turn toward the unfamiliar, distinctly feminine voice. I close my eyes briefly. When they open, my father’s expression is amused.
“I did. And I told you not to leave the bedroom.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman coos. “I missed you.”
She appears to my left, wearing a silk robe and a hopeful expression. Blonde and beautiful, like all the others. She aims a coy smile my way as she clings to my father’s arm, and my stomach roils.
“We done here?” I ask Igor.
He nods. “Victoria is in labor. You’ll stay until Aleksandr has adjusted to fatherhood, then go to Chicago and deal with this.”
I nod back. Turn and head into the hallway, intent on getting as far away as possible, as quickly as possible. Maybe he’ll fuck her again before?—
Thud.
Next time I’m summoned, there will be a new carpet.
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 onspending 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.
