He inclines his head once and turns, already assuming I will follow.
I do.
Roman and I move through a long corridor lined with framed photographs and weapons encased behind glass. Not trophies, exactly, but records. Battles survived, enemies erased, most of them from Nikolai’s father’s reign.
Every few meters, another guard stands watch, eyes forward, hands clasped behind their backs. Their presence is more ceremonial than necessity. Nikolai does not rely on excess security because he is afraid. He does it because he enjoys the reminder of what he commands.
The soldier stops in front of a set of heavy double doors. We call it a conference room when outsiders are listening, when politicians ask questions and their lawyers dig for answers. But it is not that. It is a war table.
The doors open silently.
I leave Roman in the hallway when I enter.
The room is vast but intimate in its intent. Dark wood panels line the walls, interrupted only by large maps hung on the walls. Most of them mirror my own. Districts, ports, supply routes are all marked precisely down to the smallest square footage. A single set of lights hangs overhead, its light low, casting long shadows that seem to shift the longer you stare.
The table dominates the center of the room.
Its surface bears the marks of years of knives being driven into its surface during arguments, of fists slammed down to punctuate threats, of glasses shattered when negotiations have gone poorly.
Decisions have been made here that have reshaped Moscow’s underworld for nearly a century. Cities have nearly burned because of conversations held at this table and men have vanished because their names were spoken aloud behind these closed doors.
Four chairs sit around it, positioned at the cardinal points. Equal in size. Equal in status.
Or so the illusion suggests.
Nikolai Malyshko occupies one of them. The silent king of our particular hell.
He does not rise when I step inside.
He sits with the lazy confidence of a man who knows the room bends to him and not the other way around. His dark blond hair is neatly styled to the side, his collared shirt tailored tightly to his body, the first few sets of buttons popped. His posture is relaxed in a way that would look careless on anyone else, but I know better than to believe that.
His hands rest loosely on the armrests, fingers unadorned, no rings to announce wealth or lineage. His power does not need that kind of ornamentation.
Volkov and Kuznetsov are already seated, one on either side of the table. Their expressions are unreadable, their attention flicking briefly toward me before returning to Nikolai as if drawn in by gravity.
The door closes behind me with a soft, final sound. And just like that, the Pact is in session.
Aleksandr Volkov is the first to address me.
He lounges back in his chair as if this is a casual brunch. One ankle rests over his knee, his polished shoe catching the light overhead. His posture is deliberately careless, the kind of ease that is practiced rather than natural. Volkov is many things—vain, calculating, venomous—but lazy has never been one of them.
He wears his smirk like another weapon.
Sharp cheekbones carve his face into an expression that is predatory. He’s always been handsome in a way that photographs well and disarms fools. His suit is perfectly tailored, charcoal with a subtle sheen, the fabric molded to him like it was stitched directly onto his body. Expensive cologne follows him everywhere, just strong enough to be noticed, never enough to offend.
Volkov likes people to remember him before they remember why they should fear him.
“Nice to see you finally joining us, Sokolov,” he drawls, voice smooth and theatrical. His eyes flick briefly to the empty chair that should have been mine moments ago, then back to my face. “We were worried you got lost on your way over here.”
A deliberate pause follows, bait dangling in the air.
I don’t take it.
Instead, I take my coat off and fold it over the back of the chair calmly. Eyes follow me when I finally pull it back and sit, folding my hands on top of the table. The wood is cool beneath my palms, grounding me back down to a level I’m usually at. Volkov’s smirk twitches, just slightly, when I refuse to rise to the challenge. He thrives on reaction. Denying him one is the fastest way to irritate him.
I know this like the back of my hand and use it whenever his personality begins to grate on my nerves. Which tends to be quite frequently.
Volkov and I have… history.
