“I’ve been building a case for six years,” Nikita said. “Not against you. For you.”
She was practicing something else entirely.
Nikita didn’t flinch. “No. Mama was kind. I’m something else.” nikita von james
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 also met a boy. His name was Samir, and he was gentle in a way that terrified her. He brought her tea without asking. He noticed when she hadn’t slept. He once said, “You look like you’re carrying something heavy. You don’t have to carry it alone.” “I’ve been building a case for six years,” Nikita said
Samir left. Nikita finished her degree. And then she went home.
The silence stretched. Outside, a bird sang—stupid, hopeful, alive. Nikita didn’t flinch
“I’m not here to hurt you,” she said. And it was true. Leonid Von James was already a ghost. He just hadn’t stopped breathing yet.