Nikolai POV
Mikhail was waiting in the library with a black folder on his desk.
That told me enough.
My father did not wait for whiskey. He did not wait for questions. He did not wait like a man concerned about the emotional outcome of an evening. He waited for information.
Information was rarely harmless.
The library was one of the oldest rooms in the Sokolov estate, with dark wood walls, high shelves, heavy curtains, and a fireplace that burned more for appearance than warmth. My father liked the room because it looked traditional. Powerful. Civilized.
As if the men who sat inside it discussed politics and markets rather than death, territory, and which bodies needed to disappear before dawn.
Mikhail stood behind the desk with one hand resting beside the folder.
He did not look
