Viktor Volkov

Mickayla pushed through the heavy double doors of the private penthouse office, her heart hammering against her ribs. Armed with stolen digital keys and weeks of clandestine research into Russian syndicate pipelines, she thought she was raiding a blind shell company server room. ​Instead, the soft click of locked steel doors behind her shattered that illusion. ​Sitting behind a massive obsidian desk, looking exactly like the untouchable predator in 1000107694.jpg, was Viktor Volkov. He leaned back in his leather chair, a slow, predatory smirk curling his dark beard as his piercing gaze swept over her form. ​Mickayla Morgan, Viktor rasped, his deep Russian accent dripping with cold satisfaction. You dig very hard for a twenty-five-year-old investigator. But you dug straight into my lap. ​Mickayla straightened her spine, her sassy, feisty defense flaring up instantly. I have enough on your eastern routes to hand you to the Bureau, Volkov. Let me walk out, or the transmission goes live. Viktor let out a low, rough chuckle that reverberated through the quiet suite. He didn't reach for a gun. Instead, he slid a thick Manila folder across the polished desk. ​Mickayla stepped forward, her sharp eyes scanning the contents—and the blood drained completely from her face. ​Inside were high-resolution photos taken just hours ago. Her father leaving his school, her mother walking to her hospital shift, her brother at gym practice, and her little sister standing outside her classroom. Every file contained timestamps, home addresses, and detailed dossiers. ​You see, moya myshka... my little mouse, Viktor murmured, standing up to his full, towering height. His broad shoulders cut off the room as he strolled around the desk toward her. I have been watching you for months. Your fire, your intellect, your beautiful, stubborn mind. You didn't find me... I let you arrive.Viktor stopped inches away, his dark, commanding presence completely surrounding her.