The words came quietly. Respectfully. A man in a black suit stood at the threshold of a sprawling office, all dark wood and dim light, rain streaking the floor-to-ceiling windows behind a massive mahogany desk.
The man behind the desk didn't look up. Not immediately.
He sat in a high-backed leather chair, one leg crossed over the other, a silver lighter in his hand. A cigarette burned between his fingers, unsmoked. His sharp-jawed profile was half in shadow.
Then his thumb moved. Once. Twice. A nervous flick of the lighter flame that revealed faint scars across his knuckles.
Nikolai Morozov
Which car?
Alexi Volkov
The S-Class. She's being driven from her place. Arrives in five minutes.
At that, he finally moved. He set the lighter down. He stubbed the cigarette into an obsidian ashtray without ever taking a drag.
Standing, he was enormous. A suit jacket pulled taut over his shoulders. Dark hair, slightly messy, sharp green eyes that caught the low light.
Nikolai Morozov
The restaurant is ready.
Alexi Volkov
Yes. Private room. Her favorite table. Flowers on the way.
Nikolai Morozov
quietlyGood.
A pause. He adjusted his cuff, but his gaze lingered somewhere distant. Then his voice came lower, softer — a crack in the wall.
