Her father, Leonid Von James, was a fixer. Not the heroic kind. The kind who made problems disappear. People, mostly. But also evidence, loyalties, memories. He worked for a man named Sokolov, whose face was as smooth and empty as a porcelain mask. Nikita had seen him once, at a charity gala. He had patted her head and said, “Such a polite girl.” His fingers had been cold.
She sat across from him. Placed a folder on the desk. Inside: seventeen names, five locations, three dates. And one more thing—a photograph of Sokolov, taken from a distance, shaking hands with a man whose face was blurred but whose insignia was not. Interpol. nikita von james
The house was quieter now. Her mother had died the previous spring—liver failure, the official report said, though Nikita knew the bottle had been just a slow, willing accomplice. Her father had aged twenty years in twelve months. He sat in his study, the same room she had picked the lock on so many times, and stared at the wall. Her father, Leonid Von James, was a fixer
At eighteen, she left for university in London. Her father was proud—prouder than she’d ever seen him. “My clever girl,” he said, kissing her forehead. His lips were dry. “You’ll go far.” People, mostly
He looked up. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—recognition, then fear. Because he saw it now, didn’t he? The girl who listened. The girl who remembered.
Nikita didn’t flinch. “No. Mama was kind. I’m something else.”