She was twelve when she first learned what her father did for a living.
“Sokolov killed Mama. Not the stairs, not the sherry. He sent a man. I have the witness statement. I have the medical records they tampered with. I have everything.”
Once upon a time, she began, there was a girl who listened. And the world was never quiet again. nikita von james
Not the official story—the one about imports and logistics, the one that bought them the house and the piano and the annual trip to Switzerland. No, Nikita learned the real story from the blood on his cufflinks. The kind that doesn’t wash out entirely, no matter how good the dry cleaner.
Three months later, Sokolov was arrested at an airport in Monaco, boarding a private jet with a false passport. The evidence against him was airtight: financial records, witness testimonies, photographs, and a signed affidavit from his former right-hand man. The trial was brief. The verdict was life. She was twelve when she first learned what
“I’ve been building a case for six years,” Nikita said. “Not against you. For you.”
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. He sent a man
“Papa,” she said.