That alone makes him infinitely more preferable.
I sit at my desk late into the evening following Vadim’s swearing-in, pen scratching steadily across paper as I finalizethe last strings that need pulling, bank approvals and subtle reallocations of funding that will never be traced back to me. Every signature locks another piece of the city into place like a chessboard settling after a decisive move.
Outside my office window, snow begins to fall.
My hand pauses mid-signature when my phone rings.
I glance at the display and feel my brow crease.
Volkov.
I don’t answer it right away.
Why in the world would he be calling? We don’tcalleach other. Anything we need to say usually travels through intermediaries, filtered and softened just enough to keep teeth from showing. With the dust barely settled from our last meeting and the blood still metaphorically drying on the stone floor, I can’t imagine a single reason he’d want to make contact so soon.
Unless he’s calling to demand an apology for the fight.
The thought almost makes me snort.
Aleksandr Volkov would rather cut his own tongue out than admit defeat, and doing so tomewould be unthinkable. Pride like his doesn’t bend easily, if at all. If it ever were to, I’m sure he’d force the world to burn down with it.
I set the pen down carefully before lifting the phone off my desk and answering it. “What.”
There’s a long pause on the other end. Long enough that I pull the phone slightly away from my ear and glance at the screen again, checking the connection to see if the silence could be technical rather than intentional.
It isn’t.
When he finally speaks, his voice is lower than usual, stripped of its lazy arrogance that I’ve grown used to hearing over the years.
“Sokolov.” Just my name. No insult, no greeting, no performative disdain layered over it like cheap cologne.
My posture straightens immediately.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask neutrally even as something sharp coils low in my gut.
Another beat of silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. I know he is doing this on purpose by measuring my patience, testing my willingness to fill the void with idle chatter to keep the conversation moving forward. It’s a tactic he’s used plenty of times on Kuznetsov plenty of times in the past.
I don’t. I refuse to.
Finally, he speaks again. “I need information.”
“On?”
“A man named Ramil Borchin. Do you know him?”
My brow lifts.
Borchin.
Decorated military. A career officer. The kind of man whose resume is spotless enough to be laminated and framed on the wall of the Russian Embassy. Clean, from what little I know of him, and the sort of figure the overworld parades out when it wants to reassure the public that order still exists and the machine still works as intended.
Why the hell would Volkov care about someone like that?
“I might,” I answer carefully. “Why?”
“Curiosity,” he answers.
Volkov doesn’t get curious.
