IGNAZIO
The whiskey burned on the way down.
Not in a bad way—just enough to remind me I was still breathing.
Nikandr’s office was dim, sharp with the scent of cigars and aged oak, the windows veiled by thick blinds. He sat across from me in his usual chair, elbow rested on the armrest, glass dangling in his grip. His tie was loose. His eyes were not.
"So," he said, voice low and even, “you're just not going to ask her how the envelope got into your house?”
I didn’t answer. I swirled the amber in my glass, watching the way it caught the light.
Nikandr let out a quiet laugh under his breath, the kind that carried zero humor. “You’re not curious?” he asked, lifting his brows.
“I’m curious,” I murmured. “But not reckless.”
He leaned forward, setting his glass down on the small table
