Third-person POV
The Romanov mansion stood on the cliff like a fortress waiting for war.
Every guard felt it. Every servant sensed it. Even the gulls wheeling over the ocean seemed to scream warnings.
Downstairs, the past and present collided in the grand salon.
Viktor Romanov had returned.
He strode through the front doors as though the fourteen years of exile had been a long weekend. Tall, silver-threaded, the scar on his face catching the chandelier light like a blade. He poured himself vodka from Maxim's private decanter and toasted the brother who had once held a gun to his head.
"To family,"Viktor said, smiling with too many teeth.
Maxim did not drink.
Flashback – St. Petersburg, winter 2011
Snow lashed the frozen Neva.
On a warehouse roof,
