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“She is safe,” the president says with a nod to me. “No harm.”

Several tense seconds tick by with the men in some kind of stare-off.

“I'm fine. Please let me go,” I say, attempting to shrug out of Trey’s protective hold. Turning back to the president, I attempt an easy smile that comes off more like a grimace. “You guys take table manners to the extreme, you know that?”

Wrinkles form along his brow before vanishing with a growing wide smile. “You are funny.”

“Thanks?” Again I shrug off Trey's lingering fingers this time to lean forward, placing my elbows on the table. “Can you pass the bread, please? I'm starving.”

With a nod, he passes the butcher block, setting it on the table beside my water glass. The second it’s on the table, I tear into the loaf, dipping a piece into the butter before taking a bite. The outside layer flakes off in my mouth while the moist inside melts like the butter.

“We are the same, you and I,” he says, leaning back in his chair and resting both hands atop of the arm rests where everyone can see them. Smart man. “Same poor background, same struggles.”

After wiping my fingers on the crisp white napkin, I grab the ice water glass and take a hasty sip. “You watched the campaign, then?”

He shrugs.

“It’s either that or you pulled information on me, which would be concerning.”

“The campaign, then,” he says with a smirk.

“Right,” I say slowly. “But in regards to our backgrounds, if you say they were similar, I assume with you being in Russia that you had it harder than me. I hear it gets a bit colder there than Texas.”

“Hungry is hungry, poor is poor, no matter the continent you are on.”

“Touché.” I wave a hunk of bread, emphasizing my point. “Look at where we are now.”

“Yes, but I am president and you are vice, the second.”

“That's right.” Not sure if he meant that as a jab or not. Hard to tell with these guys.

“I wish to change that.”

A chunk of half-chewed bread lodges in my throat at my gasp of surprise. Bits of it launch into my hand as I cough uncontrollably to save myself from choking. “What?” I rasp.

“I wish to help you to be first, president.”

I take a sip of water, easing the scratch and burn of my throat. “You want to kill the president? Pretty sure that's treason talk.”

“I not say kill.”

I arch a brow, peering over the rim of the water glass as I continue to nurse the soothing elixir.

“Americans,” he huffs, falling back against the chair.

“Don't ‘Americans’ me,” I say through another cough. “You set a room on fire in Munich to deliver me flowers—”

“You declined my meeting.”

“Then you had your guys corner me and mine in a dark alley after you stalked my daughter—”

“Yes and no.”

“Sorry if I don't believe you here, Mr. President—”

“Call me Vlad.”

“Vlad, you're the president of a country that's made questionable human rights decisions in the past. You've harbored terrorists, tried to take over innocent countries, and are now threatening the man running our free country. Forgive me if I don't believe a damn word you're saying.”