“Names,” I demand.
He shakes his head. “Don’t have those. But the effort implies coordination, yes? And patience. Someone with reach.”
Garin is the first name that pops into my head.
Levshin smirks. “Maybe the fact that you’ve been a bit distracted lately is factoring into it, Roman.”
I don’t react, my eyes staying locked onto his, my expression telling him to shut his mouth without speaking the actual words.
He continues anyway. “Heard you’re playing house, softening your image. Family man now, huh? The kid, the nanny?—”
I lean forward, cutting him off mid-sentence. The effect is immediate.
“Finish that sentence, Levshin, and you’ll be writing your signature with your other hand.”
Silence. He withdraws his right hand, hiding it under the desk as if I might lunge over and break it right then and there.
Maybe I should.
Levshin swallows. “Apologies. I’m speaking out of turn.”
“You certainly are.”
Andrei doesn’t move or speak. He doesn’t need to.
Levshin clears his throat and stiffens his shoulders. He was testing me. But why?
“What I can tell you is that someone is poking at your perimeter. Financials, legals, media. All of it. It’s likely meant to compress you, put you into a spot where you make an error. If they succeed, the IPO gets delayed. And delayed is a very nice way to put it. Tailspin would be more appropriate. Investors will back out, the law will move in to check if the rumors have anything to them. Eventually, your operations become wounded and they bleed out.”
I stand. The meeting is over. Andrei rises with me.
“Until next time, Levshin,” I say over my shoulder as I leave.
He calls after me as I step through the door. “If you’re interested in names, Roman, perhaps you should look closer to home.”
Outside, Chicago is sharp with cold and noise, the sky above looking like it’s ready to drop fresh inches of snow over the city.
“Can’t believe it’s almost spring,” Andrei says, pulling his coat tighter as he glances up. “Weather like this is enough to make a man consider Miami.”
A voice cuts through the din of the busy downtown street. “Mr. Barinov.”
I turn to see a man approaching us, moving with purpose, without hesitation. My hand twitches, ready to draw the gun I always keep on me.
Then he flashes a badge. My hand relaxes.
“Detective Max Russo. Chicago PD. Intelligence Unit.”
Detective Russo is in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He has an athletic build, his jaw sharp beneath a short beard. There’s a seriousness to his eyes, a cop’s authority. But I detect a bit of uncertainty in the way he carries himself. He lacks confidence.
Andrei stiffens, the way he always does when an unknown element approaches.
I incline my head. “Detective.”
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
I know my rights. I could simply tell the good detective that any and all questions can be asked in the presence of my lawyer. Or lawyers. But that’s not the right approach. I don’t want to give the law any further reason to pry into my affairs.
“That depends, Detective. Are they questions or accusations?”
