Alexei doesn't say anything for a few seconds, his expression still unreadable. “Leverage has limits, Dmitri,” he says finally, his tone quiet.
“I know mine,” I reply evenly.
“Find out who she is,” Alexei says. “If she’s useful, use her. If not—forget she exists.”
I slide the folder into my jacket and rise from my chair. “Understood.”
But I already know I won’t forget her.
Won’t forget that face.
Not after the way something sharp and inconvenient twisted in my chest when I looked at her.
The others keep talking as I walk out, but I’m not listening anymore. I have a new assignment.
And I never fail an assignment.
***
Two days.
That’s all it takes for me to learn everything about her.
Mireille Turner studies every morning at the same corner table at a café on Fifth Avenue, always with a cup of black coffee and a half-eaten croissant. She feeds the pigeons near the fountain when she’s thinking. Calls her father once a day, always short conversations. Smiles easily but laughs rarely. And every afternoon, she comes here—to Washington Square Park—to play chess.
And God, does she play well.
In the past two days, I've seen her humble smug men who initially looked down on her skills. And each time, I feel my chest tighten with a strange feeling. I can't tell if it's pride…or something else.
Right now, I'm standing by the edge of the square, sunglasses on, hands in my pockets, watching her dismantle a Wall Street type who’s clearly regretting his lunch break choices. She doesn’t gloat when she wins; she just gives a polite, amused smile, like she expected it all along.
When the crowd starts to thin, I step forward.
“Mind if I play the next round?”
She looks up, and for a few seconds, I find myself drowning in those mesmerizing blue eyes.
Then she smiles and gestures to the chair in front of her. “Yes, please. You play often?”
“Not as often as I’d like.”
She studies me, her eyes flicking from my tailored jacket to the faint smirk I can’t quite suppress. “You look more like the kind of guy who invests in chess tournaments, not plays in them.”
“I prefer the control,” I reply, sitting as she starts setting the board. “Investments can be unpredictable.”
She laughs softly. “So can people.”
I make the first move, sliding pawn to E4. She arches her brows, approval flickering in her eyes.
“You don’t waste time,” she says.
“Time’s expensive.”
“Spoken like a man who’s never had to wait for anything.”
She’s sharp. Not the sweet, sheltered type her file made her out to be. There's a bite in her tone, curiosity in her eyes. Her kind of mind doesn’t just play the game—it dissects it.
Within minutes, the board becomes an extension of our conversation. She challenges my every move, and I counter each one with precision. Before long, we’re locked in an electrified silence.
