Nikita Von James -

Her father blinked. “What?”

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.

Leonid’s hands trembled. For the first time in her life, Nikita saw her father cry. Not the loud, dramatic grief of movies. The quiet, drowning kind. The kind that happens when you realize you sold your soul for nothing.

By sixteen, Nikita had catalogued seventeen names, five locations, and three dates of “shipments” that didn’t appear on any legitimate manifest. She had learned to pick the lock on her father’s study, to photograph documents with a disposable camera, to replace them so perfectly that even his paranoia didn’t twitch. She had also learned that her mother’s “accidental” fall down the stairs two years ago had been no accident. It had been a warning. To Leonid. Stay in line. nikita von james

Yes, she thought. But not the way you mean.

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.

“I’ve been building a case for six years,” Nikita said. “Not against you. For you.” Her father blinked

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.”

Nikita did not cry. She added a name to her list.

Nikita didn’t flinch. “No. Mama was kind. I’m something else.” Inside: seventeen names, five locations, three dates

The silence stretched. Outside, a bird sang—stupid, hopeful, alive.

She was practicing something else entirely.

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.