At the center of the long obsidian table sat Dimitri Novikov. To his right, Mikhail stood rather than sat—broad-shouldered, silent, a reminder the Novikov name was not built on diplomacy alone. He scanned the room like a soldier marking exits.

To Dimitri’s left sat Nikolai, relaxed, cufflinks glinting as he traded easy smiles with rival heirs and whispered pleasantries that sounded harmless but carried hooks beneath them.

At the far end, poised and immaculate, Anya Novikov observed everything. She spoke rarely, but when she did, conversation shifted to meet her. She did not interrupt. She redirected.

Dimitri appeared at ease—leaned back slightly, fingers steepled, expression smooth. Those who knew him recognized the stillness for what it was: focus. He let each patriarch posture and repeat himself, allowed them to believe they were being heard.

The heavy double doors at the hall's end swung open.

Dimitri’s gaze lifted—and for the first time that evening, something sharpened. His brothers felt it instantly. Mikhail’s stance recalibrated. Nikolai’s smile thinned, curious. Anya’s eyes flicked once to her eldest son, reading him as she always had.