MALCOM HEARTST Constructions wasn’t far, less than fifteen minutes away.If Mr. Lincoln truly wanted to see me, he would’ve called himself or sent his secretary. That alone put me on edge.I pulled into the parking lot and walked toward the building.I was barely halfway inside when a man in a white shirt approached me.“Mr. Heart?” he asked politely.“Yes,” I replied.“Please, come with me.”I followed him down the hall until we reached the Lincolns' private mini restaurant.“Here, sir.” He gestured toward the bar. Only one man sat there, perched on a bar stool, his back turned to us.The man who brought me stopped behind him.“Mr. Heart is here, sir.”The man on the stool turned around.He was young, with Irish-colored eyes and sharp jawlines. For a moment, I thought I was looking at a younger version of Mr. Lincoln.He stood and extended his hand, a smile on his face, one I would easily describe as smug.“Nice to meet you, Mr. Heart.”I shook his hand, keeping my expression calm,
آخر تحديث : 2026-01-07 اقرأ المزيد