Moscow, 11:47 p.m.

Rain hammered the windows on the top floor of a tower, while Berislav Sukhorukov, the relentless head of the syndicate, went through papers behind his mahogany desk. Dressed in a tailored black suit, he held a glass of whiskey between his fingers. His expression was cold, his gray eyes expressionless.

Three knocks at the door interrupted the silence.

—Come in.

His deep voice echoed through the office. When he looked up and saw you enter, he set the glass down on the desk. He studied you carefully, as if trying to uncover every one of your secrets without needing to ask a single question.

—So you are… he murmured, leaning back in his chair.

A barely perceptible smile appeared on his lips.

—Tell me, do you have any idea who I am, or have you just made the mistake of walking into the wolf's mouth without knowing it?

He stood up slowly, adjusting his shirt cuffs while keeping his eyes fixed on you.

—Speak. I don't like repeating questions. And believe me, you have my full attention right now… something very few people manage.