Viktor Kozlov watched me approach with the patience of a predator. His silver hair caught the streetlight, making him look like some elegant devil from an old painting. Every step I took toward him felt like walking toward my own grave.
"Close enough," he said when I was ten feet away. His accent was faint but unmistakable. Russian. Cold as Siberian winter.
I stopped, my hands trembling despite my efforts to stay calm. "What do you want from me?"
"Want?" Viktor laughed softly. "My dear child, you misunderstand the situation entirely. This is not about what I want. This is about what you owe."
"I do not owe you anything."
"Your father borrowed heavily from the Syndicate to build his empire. Money. Resources. Protection. The debt was never repaid." Viktor's eyes glittered with malicious
