He strolls across the sidewalk like Vegas is his runway. The tailored coat, the scuffed boots, the wild curls like he forgot to comb his hair and dared anyone to mention it. People move for him without realizing it. Always have.
He heads toward the café, zero urgency. Typical.
Lev’s been derailing my life since we were kids. Back then, it was explosives and bad ideas in abandoned buildings. Now it’s charm and timing. He never grew out of the chaos; he just got better at hiding it behind a grin.
He walks in. Goes straight to the counter.
“Turkey on rye. No tomato. And a coffee. Black.”
The kid behind the register looks about sixteen. Blinks slow. “Uh. Yeah. Sure.”
Lev drops a folded bill on the counter. “Keep it.”
“Thanks, I— Wait, is this a—?”
Lev’s already walking.
He heads straight for my booth and slides in across from me like he’s early for something I invited him to.
“Two cups of coffee?” he says, nodding at the table. “You softening, or am I just that lucky?”
I don’t respond. I just watch him settle like this is normal. Like he didn’t just stroll into a bank where my asset is under surveillance and possibly being hunted.
He leans back. Cracks his knuckles. “So, how’s the coffee here?”
He knows exactly how the coffee is. He ran three jobs out of this strip mall five years ago. Got shot in the ass one floor up.
My jaw tightens. “Why are you here?”
He shrugs. “It’s public. Bright. You already swept it for bugs. And she looked like she was about to bite her own tongue off just to keep from crying, so…” He motions vaguely toward the bank’s direction. “I figured I’d grab lunch. Maybe insert myself into a conversation. Like old times.”
“You’re going to get her killed.”
“She was already circling the drain. I gave her a side rail to grab.”
I lean forward just enough. “You pull something like that again, I won’t warn you next time.”
Lev shrugs like I just threatened to cancel his lunch, not realign his teeth.
“She was spiraling,” he says. “I redirected it.”
“She’s bait. Not your charity case.”
“She’s also not as disposable as you want her to be. Which is probably your problem, not mine.”
That lands harder than I want it to. I ignore the heat rising in my jaw.
“She’s not yours to play with.”
Lev snorts. “Right. Because you’ve been so hands-off.”
I don’t answer. He knows better.
The kid from the counter arrives, finally, with a sandwich wrapped in butcher paper and a coffee in a paper cup. No plate. No tray.
Lev thanks him with a grin. “You’re doing great, champ.” Then, to me, peeling back the paper, “See? Service with a smile.”
He takes a bite like we’re just two guys catching up. Like he didn’t just drag a live wire into my operation and dare me to let it spark.
