He chews, swallows, gestures with the sandwich. “Anyway. She seemed happy to see me. Thought you’d want to know.”
I don’t react.
But my jaw clenches hard enough that I hear it click.
“She likes me,” Lev adds. “What can I say? I’m charming.”
“You’re reckless.”
“Same thing, in the right lighting.”
I run a hand down my face.
He’s not stupid. Just impulsive. That’s always been the problem. Lev Makarov has a mouth full of jokes and a coat pocket full of teeth he knocked out himself. Cleanup crew, demolition specialist, chaos containment. He’s the guy you call when your plan goes to hell, and you want to blow the evidence sky high.
But he’s never cared about civilians. Let alone ones I’ve marked as unstable.
So when he says too casually, “I added two more cameras. One over the northeast hallway exit, the other tucked behind the brochure rack near the staff-only door. Just in case someone tries to get clever on her walk to the break room,” it knocks the rhythm right out of my pulse.
I study him. “Since when do you care if someone takes her out?”
He shrugs again. Doesn’t look up. “I don’t. But I don’t like watching people walk into traps with their eyes open. Makes me itchy.”
“Bullshit.”
“Or maybe I’m just curious about what she does next.” He tears another bite of his sandwich. “And if she dies before I find out, that’s just bad storytelling.”
Before I can answer, the door chime rings.
Boris.
Great. Because apparently, my location is public knowledge now.
Lev spots him, perks up, and waves him over like we’re short one player for a game.
Boris has his hoodie zipped to the neck despite the heat. Face pale and underfed. He looks like he hasn’t slept in three days, and that’s not far from the truth. He doesn’t go anywhere without knowing every angle of the room, the backup exit, and how fast he can hijack a feed if things go sideways.
He scans the diner once. Pauses just long enough to make sure no one’s watching too closely. Then walks over and slides into the booth beside Lev.
“Boris,” Lev says around another bite of sandwich. “You look cheerful. Someone die?”
“Not yet.” Boris slides a battered tablet out of his backpack and sets it on the table. Screen already lit, feed already live. Mary’s desk. Clean shot. Clear audio. And next to it, a secondary window displaying a list of recent employee badge scans. “But I found your boy Caleb Whitfield.”
My spine straightens. “And?”
“Regional Vice President, Southwest Division. Youngest in the bank’s history.” Boris taps the screen. “Also Timofey’s old college roommate. NYU Stern. Same dorm, same year.”
The pieces click together with an almost audible snap.
“Roommates,” I repeat.
“Gets better,” Boris continues, completely deadpan. “Uncle owns a chunk of Brightside National. Legacy donor family. Caleb’s been fast-tracked since graduation, and guess who’s been making very quiet, very specific transaction requests through the Vegas branch for the past eighteen months?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer.
“Your golden boy, Timofey. Everything runs through Caleb’s direct authorization. Clean codes, nothing that screams money laundering.”
Lev stops chewing. “Well, shit.”
